


Battlefields

by ellijay



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8588920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellijay/pseuds/ellijay
Summary: A lot can happen in just a few days.  When Daniel is missing in action for more than a week, Jack learns just how true that is.  Set after the third season episode "The Devil You Know."





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old story, written back when SG-1 was new and shiny. I’m reposting it now mainly to have all of my fic in one place, but also in the hopes that it finds new readers or maybe makes its way back to previous readers who might want to reminisce. This story was originally published under another name, but I’m still me, many years of life experience notwithstanding, and the title and contents of the story are the same.
> 
> (Original Author's Notes: A honkin' huge thank-you to my betas for their immeasurably valuable and insightful input - Jb, Scribe and OzK. This story had the potential to be quite a minefield, but you helped me keep my eye on where I was putting my feet.)

Contrary to popular belief, SG-1 pulls its fair share of uneventful, even boring, missions. My team doesn't _always_ come back with someone bleeding or Jaffa on our tails or aliens intent on mischief tagging along. Sometimes the natives are friendly, sometimes the ruins are as deserted as they appear, and sometimes there's nothing but plants and friendly critters.  
  
P4X119 was just like that - plants and critters, that is. OK, so maybe the fauna wasn't all that cute and fuzzy in this case - scaly and warty for the most part - but at least they didn't try to slime, maul, bash, pummel or drag us off to be chew toys for their young. It was a quick and uneventful in-and-out.  
  
I decided to dial home for a change, I suppose because I wanted to prove I was every bit as capable of playing "find the point of origin" as Daniel. I guess he was on to me because he didn't even twitch when I hesitated after punching in the first six oh-so- familiar symbols. OK, so maybe I don't know those glyphs quite as well as the Roman alphabet. It's not like I grew up crawling around tombs and squinting at old chicken scratches. So it took me a couple of seconds more than it might've taken Daniel. Not bad for a crusty old colonel.  
  
Teal'c went first; then the MALP loaded with several pounds of glorious, oh-so-interesting soil and vegetation samples; then Carter the Keeper-of-Samples. Daniel went next, and I was just about to follow on his heels when the 'Gate flickered. In a word, shit. In three words or less, shit shit shit. I do _not_ like it when usually reliable pieces of technology unexpectedly go on the fritz. Especially not when my team members just tossed themselves _inside_ the piece of technology in question. Definitely not good.  
  
Then the friggin' thing had the audacity to shut down completely. It kicked right back on again when I reentered the coordinates for home, but when I got there, I found one team member MIA. Daniel. Crap, shit, fuck. In that order.  
  
Nine days he was missing. Not a big deal when you know where someone is and what he's doing. Hell, weeks had gone by before with Daniel offworld helping some other team dig some long-dead schmuck's remains and personal effects out of the ground, and I hardly gave it a second thought. But when you have no idea what kind of shit the person in question has landed in - and when he up and vanished on your watch to boot, when he was most decidedly your responsibility - it's more than a little difficult not to think about it. Constantly.  
  
Outwardly, I managed to keep a lid on it for the most part, but secretly, my shoulders worked themselves into knots that would've done a Boy Scout proud and my stomach was doing an admirable impersonation of Mauna Loa. I thought nine _months_ was a long time when Sara was pregnant with Charlie, but at least with a pregnancy, you have a reasonable expectation of ending up with a healthy baby at the end. In this case, the only thing I could be reasonably sure of was that every hour ticking away was that much closer to Very Bad News.  
  
I'm not even going to try to compare this to the nine days I spent stranded in the desert in Iraq. Yeah, that was bad - very, very bad. But at least I knew where I was, what I had to do. Being a single-minded, goddamn stubborn son-of-a-bitch actually did some good in the end. With Daniel missing, though, I felt like I was running around in circles and getting dizzier and more nauseated every second.  
  
But I'd be damned to hell and back again if I was going to give up. Daniel wasn't dead. I refused to even consider the possibility and was more than a little ruthless when anyone else tried to bring it up. Dammit, he couldn't be dead. Not the Spacemonkey. He was just...misplaced. Thrown off the path of breadcrumbs. Wandered away in the woods. Problem was, we had no idea what kind of creepy-crawlies might be lurking in those woods.  
  
Past experience was getting us nowhere. There was no significant seismic activity at the time of the malfunction to indicate there might be yet another long-lost 'Gate hiding somewhere on Earth. There wasn't anything on either end of the wormhole which would indicate an overload on the order of the one that had sent Carter and me way, way down under - no Jaffa ambushes, no lightening strikes, no off duty airmen crashing the mainframe playing 'Quake.  
  
Just in case, though, we tried working back along the route between Earth and P4X119, sending every available team on quick, down and dirty recon missions. Even headed up several missions myself, and temporarily assigned Teal'c to another team for ass-kicking duty. Not that the other teams really needed ass-kicking. We'd all grown close in a comrades-in-arms kind of way. Civilian, Marine, Army or Air Force - didn't matter. We all got a little bit nuts when one of our own ended up MIA. OK, I admit - I did eventually end up going more than a little nuts in this case. More like honkin' huge macadamias, if I'm really honest about it. The calm, cool, collected act only lasted so long and then I got thoroughly hacked off at the lack of results. Probably kicked a few asses that didn't need kicking, but sore butts heal with time. Dead people don't.  
  
Carter tackled the scientific gobbledygook and did her damndest to figure out any possibility we hadn't run into yet that might explain how a person could step into a wormhole on one end and not come out on the other end along with the people who'd gone in ahead of him. I imagine she even thought about all the ways Daniel might've ended up dead instead of somewhere else, but she was smart enough not to mention any of those theories to me. She eventually settled on an explanation that had to do with some other 'Gate overloading and its wormhole going freaky and colliding with the one Daniel was in, ending up with a snatch and grab. One hijacked archeologist diverted to an alternate destination. Problem was, we had no idea how to take the idea and use it to narrow down our search in any appreciable way.  
  
That's where the Tok'Ra came into the picture. Not exactly my favorite “people,” and I use the term loosely, to deal with, but at that point, anything was better than continuing to thunk our heads up against the proverbial wall. They happened to stumble across Daniel's location and, wonder of all wonders, actually decided to come to us and volunteer the information. I should've known right off the bat when Martouf arrived with the news that there was some kind of ulterior motive lurking behind the apparent goodwill, but I was so damned relieved to find out Daniel was alive, my suspicious circuit temporarily went on the fritz. And then I had to deal with the fact that "alive" was about the only good part of situation he was in.  
  
He was on a planet called Torrhena, which just happened to be embroiled in the middle of a particularly nasty civil war. And it seemed for some unfathomable reason, he had decided to ally himself with one faction in this war. And had spent the better part of the last nine days making a hell of a reputation for himself. They were calling him "the Butcher," and not the kind that's friendly with the baker and the candlestick maker. He'd been captured by the opposing side just the previous day and was now slated to be put on trial for war crimes.  
  
War crimes. Daniel Jackson. The Butcher. Had to be some kind of a sick joke. But Marty assured us it wasn't. His captors claimed they had evidence. Clear and irrefutable. The kind of horrors I've seen with my own eyes more than enough times in the past, but to think Daniel would even be capable of _imagining_ that kind of shit, much less _doing_ it, was beyond belief. I mean, we were talking bodies hacked and slashed and beaten to bloody pulps. Yeah, killing is pretty much part and parcel of war, and Daniel had seen more than his fair share of that in his time with SG-1, but what Martouf was talking about went way beyond shoot 'em between the eyes and move on. And there were some non-combatants involved as well, some of them children.  
  
No way. Not Daniel Jackson. No goddamn way.  
  
From where I was standing, this was a rescue operation - rescue Daniel from the idiots who had obviously mistaken him for someone else or who were using him as a convenient scapegoat. Simple enough. Break him out of the clink and head for the hills. But then Marty laid the ulterior motive right out in the open. The reason the Tok'Ra had found Daniel in the first place was because they had a delegation currently on Torrhena, hip-deep in some serious negotiations for a stockpile of weapons. Seems the Karievesh, the faction that had Daniel in their filthy mitts, were doing a side business as interstellar arms merchants. Special.  
  
The Tok'Ra, bless their snakey little hearts, were initially far too concerned about securing their spiffy new arsenal to take any interest in one little unblended human, but Marty made a point of reminding them they pretty much owed us a favor for that jaunt to Netu. So they half-heartedly twisted some arms to get the Karievesh to allow us to send our own delegation. Great. "Delegation" does not equate with "jailbreak" in anyone's dictionary. So we were into politics and diplomatic maneuvering. One more _shit_ for good measure.  
  
Marty cautioned us it wouldn't be easy to get them to hand over Daniel. Yeah, the Karievesh were shocked to find out their prize p.o.w. wasn't even from their planet, but that didn't mean a hill of beans to them in the end. They were intent on crucifying him. There was no doubt we'd be met with a less than cheerful welcome. Like I really gave a damn. The thing I was most looking forward to was spitting right in the eye of whoever had tried to pin this crap on Daniel. And then I'd make sure the real culprit paid for his crimes. Slowly and painfully.  
  
It took several hours of heated debate to bang out who would be going to Torrhena. The Karievesh had graciously allowed us a whopping three delegates, which to me meant Carter, Teal'c and yours truly. But then Marty sprang yet another shit-fuck on us by quietly suggesting Doctor Fraiser be included on the team. He hadn't been able to get in to see Daniel himself before he'd been sent off to deliver his message to us, but the Karievesh guard who'd taken him back to the 'Gate had apparently been a chatty little bugger. He'd gone on at great length about how the Butcher had gotten a hefty dose of his own medicine when he'd been hauled in, and he'd just have to lick his own wounds because no Karievesh medic would waste time and medical supplies on someone who was going to be facing the executioner soon anyway.  
  
That little revelation resulted in a couple beats of absolute silence, which I quickly broke by making an official request for Fraiser to be on the team. Approved by Hammond. Over and done with. Move on. Next choice, next decision.  
  
Marty was going along for the ride, too - not as an official member of our delegation, but to meet up with his fellow Tok'Ra and see what he could do about applying the thumbscrews to get them to consider Daniel's release as a condition of the arms negotiation. I wasn't holding my breath there, but what the heck. Every now and then when you grasp at straws you end up with a handful of something. Of course, it might be something you'd really rather not have within ten miles of yourself, but that doesn't stop you from trying.  
  
So that left one slot to be filled. I was doing a quick run-through of the relative merits of selecting either Carter or Teal'c, but Hammond beat me to the punch. He announced with the kind of finality that makes you know it's an order even though he hasn't said it in so many words that Major Kovacek would be rounding out the team.  
  
Great. Absolutely fucking wonderful. The Bootlick himself. He hadn't done diddly for getting my team out of Hadante prison, a fact which I couldn't help but point out. Hammond shut me down with a glare. Told me I could live with it, or I could stay home. Rock and a hard place. Damn, he had that one down pat. And I could tell he wouldn't budge. I decided it'd be wise to stuff a sock in it.  
  
Carter wasn't happy about being left out. I was expecting that. Teal'c was his usual accepting self. Expecting that, too. What really shook me was the complete and utter faith they both put in me to bring Daniel back. When they saw us off in the 'Gate room, I assured them come hell or high water, I was going to get Daniel out of there. Carter just said, "I know," and Teal'c simply nodded. But the looks on their faces - they really and truly believed. I guess it shouldn't have surprised me, not after all we'd been through together. But the reminder was a real kick in the teeth - and made me even more brutally determined not to set foot back on my home turf without Daniel in tow.  
  
Torrhena turned out to be a charming little vacation spot. The place was blasted to hell and back again, complete with charred what-used-to-be trees and smoking ruins, cold wind and the smell of rain in the air. And mud. Lots and lots of sticky gray mud. Seems one of the major issues in this happy-go-lucky land war was control of the local Stargate, and neither side had been gentle with the surrounding environment.  
  
We were met by a representative of the High Council of Karievesh, a guy with a name that sounded something like "hock spit." He was wearing a spiffy little impersonation of a Chairman Mao suit, but looked every bit the perfect Aryan. Charming combination. I was more than happy to let Kovacek handle the pleasantries. So maybe sucking up did have its uses, and if there was a professional ass kisser handy, all the better.  
  
After brief introductions, Hock-spit hustled us off to a waiting ground car, a sleek, steel-gray little number thrumming with some kind of high-tech propulsion, but the slick Buck Rogers effect was completely ruined by the crude, brutally spiked treads it had been outfitted with to get it over the rough terrain and busted up roads. Guess they weren't into antigravity. Funny because their planet really sucked.  
  
The interior of the car was cool and uniformly gray, moderately padded seats on three sides and the door on the fourth. Hock-spit slid himself into the seat nearest a console decked out with fancy monitors and touch screens, tapped out a sequence on one of the screens, and off we went with a little jerk and a whir.  
  
I felt like we'd been dumped into the middle of some drug-induced vision of post-apocalyptic wasteland, art deco museum, and fascist Disneyland all in one.  
  
Fraiser spent the ride staring out the window and fiddling with the strap of her medical bag, Marty closed his eyes and pretended to take a nap - I could tell his ears were perked up the whole time, though - and I focussed most of my attention on trying to follow along with the gabbling duo of Bootlick and Hock-spit. It seemed the Karievesh were concerned Daniel's presence on their bass ackwards little mud hole of a planet meant we were taking an interest in their war and had, in fact, given our endorsement to the Feloren, the erstwhile opponents of the Karievesh.  
  
"The Feloren are vicious savages," Hock-spit told us. "But this Butcher has taken 'savage' to new levels."  
  
"His name is Daniel Jackson," I couldn't help but put in, earning me a glare from Kovacek.  
  
Hock-spit inclined his head toward me and said slowly, "Jackson, then." Like he was doing me some kind of huge favor by using Daniel's proper name. "His presence among the Feloren guerrilla forces only became known to us seven days ago. In the six days between that time and his capture yesterday - at great cost of life to our own loyal defenders, I might add - this Daniel Jackson managed to single-handedly slaughter, with brutal efficiency, at least one hundred and fourteen Karievesh soldiers, along with a sizeable number of non-combatants. Reports are still coming in from the field, so the final total may be well beyond that. The evidence is quite definitive - video records, eyewitness accounts. There can be no doubt the trial will result in a finding of guilt. I'm afraid you've only come here to see your compatriot convicted and executed for his crimes."  
  
Spiffy. Just absolutely freakin' spiffy. Nice attitude, bucko. The whole situation was nuts. Beyond nuts to completely out of touch with reality. Salvador Dali time. Oh, for a gun so I could shoot the smug bastard right between the eyes. But we'd had to leave our weapons behind. I'd argued for handguns or zats at the least, but the Karievesh had specified we come unarmed. I guess they thought we were all bloodthirsty maniacs like they were accusing Daniel of being. Heck, I probably could've done a pretty close approximation if provoked, but Fraiser? Not likely, although she can be pretty intimidating on her own terms. And Kovacek? Forget it.  
  
It took us on the order of fifteen minutes to get out of complete wasteland and into wasteland haphazardly scattered with non-descript metal and concrete buildings vaguely reminiscent of Quonset huts. Drilling in formation in the muck and mire between the buildings were ranks of soldiers unlike anything I'd ever seen outside of a B-grade sci-fi flick. Medieval Mongol biker gangs from hell. They were wearing dull black breastplates and matching bits of armor on shoulders, arms and legs, the whole ensemble studded with some sort of silver metal and topped off with visored helmets. Some of them were brandishing long black swords topped by crowns of wicked-looking barbs, and others were carrying what looked like mutant assault rifle/staff weapon hybrids.  
  
The car droned to a halt, and we piled out to face a twenty-strong unit of heavily armed bad-asses. Half of them peeled off to escort Kovacek and his newfound buddy Hock-spit to meet with the Right Honorable Thellok Tristan, the commander of this military outpost and also charged by the High Council of Karievesh with trying Daniel's case. Probably a trained government ape ready and willing to put on a circus trial for the sake of a few bananas.  
  
Fraiser and I were herded by the remainder of the guards over to a nearby building, ostensibly so the doc could see to Daniel's medical needs. They weren't willing to waste their own time and effort on what to them was a walking dead man, but they seemed perfectly willing to allow us to do whatever we wanted in that department. "We are not completely without compassion, after all," Hock-spit had assured us. Yeah, right. Regular angels of mercy. So that would explain why several minutes and a maze of dimly lit cellblock corridors later, we found Daniel stashed behind an energy barrier in his very own gray and barren cubicle - shackled hand and foot, collared and chained to the wall.  
  
He was more than a little ragged around the edges - matted hair, bare feet, a wicked-looking scabbed-over gash across his temple and the scruffy start of a beard - and that was just what I could see right then. No telling what was hidden underneath the black jumpsuit he was wearing, which was entirely too large for him. His hands were tucked between his legs and chest, knees pulled up and his eye sockets pressed into his kneecaps, a chain running down his back and up to an anchor high on the wall.  
  
The guard who had escorted us there said crisply, with more than a hint of a sneer in her voice, "I feel I should point out we do not treat _civilized_ captives in this fashion. This one is particularly violent. He would not allow us to tend to him, although we insisted on cleaning the filth off his body." Yeah, right. Nice excuse. And if I know the first thing about battlefield prisons, that "bath" probably came either at the end of a high-pressure hose or in the form of a brutal dunking one step away from death by drowning. She couldn't leave it at that, though. She just had to add, "If you choose to enter, we will not be responsible for any harm inflicted upon you by the prisoner."  
  
"Look, lady," I said, wanting to smash that upturned little nose right back into her face. "He's not gonna hurt _me_. Now open up and let us in."  
  
"Very well. But you have been warned." I was sorely tempted to tell her where she could stuff her warning, but she’d already deactivated the force field via a palm print reader next to the door. Besides, I doubted there was any room for her to shove anything else in there, what with the corncob already in residence.  
  
"How about the shackles?" I asked, sure she was either going to laugh at me or ignore me completely. I got the "knock yourself out, buster" treatment instead. She squinted her beady little eyes sadistically at me while reaching down and unhooking a small device from her belt - a flat, silver oblong with a black button.  
  
"Point this and press the button. But only after I've reactivated the energy field. I strongly caution you not to release him, but if you insist, I'll be back later to collect what's left of you." She stabbed a finger toward the opening into the cell. "In. Now. Or leave. I have more important matters to occupy my time."  
  
Such lovely manners. Probably spent her spare time practicing her goosestep. _Zieg heil._  
  
I led the way into the cell, Fraiser right behind me. Little Miss Corncob-Up-Her-Ass slapped the palm reader to reactivate the force field, then turned sharply on her heel, clicked her spit-polished knee-high boots together, and clomped off down the hall. Give my regards to Adolf.  
  
Fraiser was ready to get down to some serious doctoring business, but I held her back for a moment. Daniel wasn't moving, and I was getting that ice cubes down the back kind of shivery feeling. I edged up to him carefully, calling his name. Still no movement apart from the slight shift of his shoulders as he breathed in and out, so I hunkered down next to him and reached out to touch his arm. Ended up with two fists slamming into my jaw. Knocked me flat on my keester. It took me a second to realize Daniel had actually hit me, then I was shoving myself back across the floor to get away from him as he lunged at me again. The collar hauled him up short, and with a strangled hacking noise, he bounced back into the wall and slid to the floor. His head rolled back, then to the side, and finally came to rest with his chin on his chest.  
  
Fraiser offered a hand to pull me up, looking every bit as stunned as I felt, but I waved her off. I'd startled Daniel. That was all. He thought I was someone else. Probably someone coming to kick the crap out of him. Again. That must be how he got those bruises on his face, the black eye, the split lip. That's all it was. Had to be.  
  
I shifted onto my knees and leaned cautiously forwards. "Daniel? It's me. Jack."  
  
He slowly raised his head and blinked at me several times, obviously having difficulty focusing. "Jack?" It didn't sound like his voice at all, dry and harsh, barely above a whisper.  
  
"Yeah, it's me. Doc Fraiser's here, too. We're gonna get you out of here, but for right now, how about you let her take a look at you. Make sure you're OK." Physically, at least. What we could handle at the moment. I was beginning to have serious doubts about his mental state, and what he did next didn't exactly boost my confidence. He let his head fall back to smack against the wall and closed his eyes. Then...he started laughing - choking, heaving, gasping laughter, desperate, almost hysterical, bordering on outright sobbing.  
  
I honestly didn't know what to do. I was having flashbacks to padded cells and trashed storage rooms. Fraiser was rummaging around in her bag, probably looking for a sedative, but before she could find what she wanted, Daniel went dead quiet. He turned and looked right at me, and I swear I flinched. It literally hurt - physically - to look back at him. I had never seen shadows quite like that in his eyes, despite the couple dozen nasty experiences he'd been through just in the time I'd known him up to that point. Grief, pain, addiction - they can all do strange things to a person, turn him into something he's not. But this was different. This was the look of a man who would blow his own brains out without batting an eyelash if you handed him a gun. I'd seen that look before in other people's eyes, even seen it in the mirror, but it wasn't something I'd ever expected to see in Daniel Jackson's face. Not the original Timex Kid. But everyone has their limits. I suppose it was just a matter of time and circumstance.  
  
I couldn't handle seeing him like that, but I also refused to look away - and he was just as determined as I was not to be the first one to blink. "C'mon, Daniel. Let us help you." It sounded completely trite and stupid, but it did have an effect. Not the one I might've hoped for, but something.  
  
He shrugged his shoulders and laid his forehead back on his knees. "Whatever."  
  
I looked up at Fraiser, but her eyes were locked on Daniel, every muscle in her face tense with concentration. Evaluating, assessing. She knelt down next to Daniel and set her bag down beside her. "Colonel? The shackles?"  
  
Crap. I'd just about forgotten. The key thingy was still clutched in my hand. I pointed it at Daniel and clicked the button, one of my eyes twitching into an involuntary blink as the restraints around his ankles went clattering to the floor. Fraiser had to jimmy her hand between his chest and thighs to tug the loose manacles off his wrists, then she finished removing the loosened collar from his neck. Apparently, he was willing to submit to her care, but he wasn't going to do anything to help her.  
  
Fraiser produced a blanket from her bag of tricks and spread it out on the floor. Then she looked up with a silent appeal in her eyes. This was going to take both of us, in more ways than one.  
  
I went over and slipped my hands under Daniel's armpits while she grabbed his knees, and together we maneuvered him, now limp and unresisting, onto the blanket. I had no idea what signals I might've been sending out - I couldn't even begin to get a handle on what I was feeling - but she had at least a dozen different emotions playing across her face, chief of which was concern. Deep down in your gut, turn your world upside down anxiety. Yeah, that was definitely part of what I was feeling.  
  
But practicality had to come first. Fraiser set about taking his vitals, then methodically began to check for broken bones, her strong and capable hands calmly running over arms and legs, a running assessment quietly muttered. For my benefit. Didn't seem like Daniel was taking any note. He wasn't doing anything other than staring up at the ceiling and occasionally flinching or sucking in a breath. Mostly pressing his mouth tightly closed or biting his lower lip. They must've given him a pretty thorough working over.  
  
Fraiser's initial exam turned up a low-grade fever and a badly sprained wrist, but no broken arms or legs. She suspected a possible concussion even though he wouldn't respond to her litany of what's-your-name, what-day-is-it, how-many-fingers-am-I-holding-up questions. The knot at the back of his head was a big clue there. And if that hadn't done it, there was always the gash across his temple.  
  
OK, so maybe it wasn't too terribly bad. But then she unzipped the front of the jumpsuit and eased it off of his shoulders, with me propping him up from behind since he was still doing his rag doll impression. I kind of hoped I was seeing things, but the light in the cell was sufficient for me to get a good, long, clear look.  
  
Bastards. Absolute, complete and utter effing bastards. Oh, they'd done a number on him all right. What he was lacking in major injuries, he more than made up for in cuts, bruises and abrasions - some of them looking several days old and oozing from lack of attention. There was even some dirt still ground into a few of the slashes and scrapes. Must've been missed by the tender ministrations of the fire hose.  
  
Fraiser pressed at the edges of one of the larger wounds, and Daniel jerked back against me with a barely suppressed groan. "OK, Daniel," she said softly, resting a reassuring hand on his bare shoulder. "I know this isn't very pleasant, but I need to check you for internal injuries. I'm going to have the Colonel lay you down, all right?" There was a slight twitch of his shoulder - I'm not sure whether it was an _I don't care_ or a _let go of me_ \- but he did allow me to lower him back down to the blanket.  
  
Fraiser set about poking and prodding his abdomen in ways I know good and well from too much experience can be downright uncomfortable when nothing's broken or ruptured or even bruised. She did her best to avoid the worst of the cuts and bruises, but in some cases, that just wasn't possible. The only sounds he made, though, were a few grunts and stifled groans, despite the fact that he had to be just about biting a hole in his lower lip and his eyes were squeezed so tightly shut he must've been seeing stars. When she was finally done, he let out a barely controlled, shuddering breath and let his head roll to the side.  
  
She sat back on her heels and folded her hands in her lap. "There don't seem to be any internal injuries beyond some possible bruising. A couple of cracked ribs. He'll need a lot of suturing, but for the more serious wounds I'll have to do some thorough irrigation first, possibly some debridement, to be sure no infection sets in. I don't want to do any of that here. I'll give him an antibiotic injection for now, apply some antibiotic ointment to the wounds and dress them." She sighed and started pulling out the supplies she'd need. "A dose of morphine probably wouldn't go amiss either."  
  
That finally got a reaction out of him. He hauled himself up to a sitting position and probably would have toppled right over if I hadn't grabbed him by the arms. His voice was steady enough, though. He said, "No," very clearly and firmly. "No morphine." I could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders tensing. Crap. I really didn't want to have to hold him down.  
  
Fraiser set the medication aside and tucked her hands between her knees. "It'll help."  
  
"No. It won't." It was the first sign I'd seen of the real Daniel since we arrived - stubborn as all get out - but damned if I knew why he was picking this particular battle to fight. I'd never seen him turn down a painkiller before.  
  
"Why don't you think it will help?" Fraiser asked calmly, studying him intently with serious eyes.  
  
"I want to feel the pain," he said, the slightest hint of a quiver in his voice. "It's the only way I can tell I'm still alive. The only way I can tell what's real and what isn't."  
  
Talk about a vicious kick in the gut - two-footed with steel-toed boots. I swear I forgot to breathe for several very long seconds.  
  
Fraiser's eyes were flicking back and forth between me and Daniel. She obviously didn't know how to respond to what he'd said. But I did. I'd been there before. And nearly hadn't made it back with my sanity intact.  
  
I forced a deep breath and tightened my grip on Daniel's shoulders, shook my head sharply at Fraiser. If Daniel said, "No morphine," there'd be no morphine. Anger snapped briefly in her eyes, but then this awful...shadow...passed over her face, and the outrage fizzled and died away. She understood.  
  
"Daniel," she said gently, and I was amazed she was able to get the name out on the first try, "you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but it might help if you tell us what happened."  
  
What really happened. Not the lies we'd already had shoved down our throats.  
  
He didn't say anything right away. I guess I wasn't really expecting him to answer. But all bets seemed to be off as far as expectations were concerned at that point. "I don't– I don’t remember anything. I can't. I can't remember." His voice broke and he sucked in a deep breath, leaving me to wonder if he literally didn't remember, or couldn't allow himself to remember. Either way, it wasn't good. Not good at all.  
  
Fraiser muttered some vague reassurances, told him it was OK, got him to lay back and close his eyes. Rest. Just rest and let it go for now.  



	2. Zombies and Banshees

Even with my impromptu help as assistant, it took Fraiser a good two hours to get Daniel bandaged up to her satisfaction and safely tucked back into his jumpsuit. Not like her patient noticed how much time it took. For the most part he was in Zombie Land. Zonked out. Off somewhere else. Probably putting all his strength and effort into not thinking. And no, I don't read minds. But like I said, I've seen the looks before. Been behind the looks myself. The whole goddamn range of beat up, dragged down, wrung out, pushed to the limit looks and expressions - and lacks of expression. Daniel had undoubtedly been through some Seriously Bad Shit. And I intended to find out exactly what.   
  
I was actually glad to see Miss Corncob come back to check on us. Even got the satisfaction of watching the smirk melt right off her face when she realized the Butcher's buddies had been spared the slaughterhouse. I seriously think she was hoping for some gore and carnage. And she would've gotten it too, up close and personal, if it hadn't been for the force field. Not from me, though. Yeah, I'd been tempted to plant my fist in her face, but Daniel actually tried - force field or no.   
  
He went from zombie to banshee in a split second, launching himself across the room with so much force my reflexes had me plastered against the wall before I could even realize what was happening. He slammed full tilt into the energy barrier, so hard he actually bounced back, but that didn't stop him from trying again - and again and again. Completely oblivious to the sizzling and sparking of the force field. God, that had to hurt.   
  
And sure enough, he was yelling at the top of his lungs. But then I realized with an ice-cold sinking feeling that it wasn't from pain. It was the crazed, blood-thirsty scream of a man seemingly stripped of reason and intellect - pumped to the gills with adrenaline, wide-eyed with fear and hate and driven to the point of being able to do anything - absolutely anything.   
  
Never in a million years would I have guessed Daniel Jackson had something like that inside of him. Yes, he's human. Yes, he gets angry. But always before it had been controlled, if only by the slimmest of margins. This - this was way, _way_ out of hand.   
  
I was stunned. No, that doesn't even begin to cover it. More like shocked shitless. Literally petrified.   
  
I managed to work my jaw loose enough to shout his name, but that had about as much effect as spitting into a hurricane. I considered trying to wrestle him to the ground, but I had an awful feeling I'd have to hurt him - maybe badly - to manage that.   
  
He was hurling himself at the barrier over and over again - frenzied, panting, grunting and growling, each impact leeching a bit of that sudden, furious strength away from him, but he was determined to break through to the impassive face on the other side. Coming close to frying his own hide just to wrap his hands around her neck. I had no doubt - then or now - that he would've snapped it right in two if he'd managed to get through to her.   
  
And the double-damned woman just stood there, watching. Aloof. Slightly...amused. Me, I was so far from amused, my jaw clenched so tight, I don't think I could've produced a smile even with the assistance of a crowbar.   
  
Movement out of the corner of my eye finally diverted my attention. Fraiser was kneeling on the floor, searching frantically through her bag. Of course, Jack, you stupid fuck. Sedative. Knock him out and figure out what the hell is going on afterwards. Priorities - keep 'em straight.   
  
I crept forward a few careful steps, not wanting to distract Daniel and end up staring down the wrong end of uncontrolled fury. He'd be likely to take my head off before he even knew it was me. Hell, he'd just about shot me once before, and he wasn't even half as far gone. But he'd made it through that round of insanity, and he'd make it through this one too. I just had to keep telling myself that. I had to believe it if I wanted to have any hope of convincing Daniel. And judging from the way events were going down - upending and spilling messily all over the place in the process - it was going to take more than a stern talking to. A hell of a lot more.   
  
I glanced quickly in Fraiser's direction to check her progress just as her head shot up and her hands emerged from the bag clutching a vial and a syringe. She glared fiercely at me. "I just got done patching him up. Damned if I'm gonna do it all over again." Her words were all bravado and testosterone, a thin veneer of courage, but you take what you can get, use whatever you can muster.   
  
"OK," I said, half my attention on her as she filled the syringe, the other half on Daniel - or the screeching blur of flailing limbs Daniel had become. How could he possibly go on yelling like that without spitting blood? The racket was curling my toes and frazzling my nerves into little knots of jitteriness. "I'll grab him and hold him down. You stick him."   
  
Simple. Straightforward. Very often the best kind of plan. And it worked like - well, not really like a charm, but it worked.   
  
Turned out it was actually a good thing I hadn't tried to tackle him sooner. Let him spend a good deal of his energy on the force field. If he'd had it all to turn on me, I seriously think he might've knocked me flat on my ass. As it was, I just about had my arms wrenched out of their sockets pinning his arms behind his back and then continuing to hold him while Fraiser ducked in and jabbed the needle into his thigh, right through the material of the jumpsuit. And then I hung on some more while the drug kicked in and his jerking faded into twitches and then into stillness.   
  
We picked him up like we had before and got him back onto the blanket, then I turned to deal with the Corncob. She was still standing there, safe and untouched behind her sweet little invisible wall - hands tucked behind her back, eyebrows raised, still faintly bemused, but with a touch of disgust mixed in. I'd had quite enough of her frosty airs, thank you very much. She was obviously a jumped-up, pissant, too- big-for-her-britches errand girl. Time to get down to business and talk to the real movers and shakers.   
  
Priorities. First priority of a prisoner is to escape, and the first priority of his commander is to assure the safety of his team members. In this case, that meant my job was to facilitate escape or release, by whatever means necessary. That goal wasn't going to be achieved by sitting in a prison cell. I had other fish to fry. Thellok Tristan fish, to be specific.   
  
First, though, I had to get past the guard-bitch. Oh, she was perfectly willing to let me out, but damned if she didn't make us put the shackles back on Daniel first. Despite the fact he was out cold. Down for the count. Night night. But Corncob didn't care how many euphemisms for "unconscious" I threw at her. That was the deal. Shackles, then out. No shackles, sit your butt down and get used to staring at blank gray walls. So I did it, even though it galled me no end. I took one side while Fraiser did the other. I even managed to snap that fucking collar back around Daniel's neck, all without looking at his face. Or at Fraiser's, not that she was making any effort to make eye contact with me, either.   
  
I gave her the key device, and I knew she could release the restraints as soon as the force field was back up, but still - it's the principal of the thing. I didn't want to believe Daniel needed to be tied up like that, but for the first time, I found myself dreading the evidence the Karievesh claimed to have. I hated myself for admitting there might be even the slightest grain of truth in their accusations, but what I'd just seen was...unsettling. Downright disturbing. OK, I admit - it was a complete and utter mindfuck. It made me wonder. And I felt nauseated - at myself, and at the unconsidered possibilities.   
  
Corncob took great pleasure in marching me back outside and handing me back over to my ugly as sin honor guard, who bunched up around me in tight enough formation that I could smell what they had for lunch. Something with onions, evidently, or the local equivalent. Lots and lot of onions. They hustled me across the muck and mire to the tin can apparently serving as the administrative building or courthouse or whatever. Could've been their idea of an embassy for all I know.   
  
Martouf was just emerging from the rectangle of the doorless entrance, along with a woman. I might've easily mistaken her for a man if it weren't for the persistent curves still lingering under layers of muscle and body-hugging matte black armor plating. Her head was bare and shaved as close as a raw recruit in boot camp, but there was just enough hair left to tell it would probably be a deep shade of auburn if allowed to grow long. Somehow I doubted she would ever consider something that frivolous. This woman was no-nonsense, all business, appraising gray eyes and stern jaw, with a rather ugly scar across one cheek. Looked like she had stitched the wound up herself - on the battlefield without the benefit of a mirror.   
  
She gave me a thorough scan with one quick flick of her eyes. Made me feel like I'd just been subjected to one of Fraiser's poke, prod and turn you inside out complete physicals. Then she stalked off on some apparently urgent errand. She had quite an impressive backside. Yeah, I stared - just a little - but I refrained from whistling, even a low one under my breath. Just on general principle.   
  
Martouf liberated me from the middle of my pack of guard dogs with a few muttered words to the head mongrel. They clomped and squished off to the side of the building with surprisingly precise and quick efficiency, then turned and ranked themselves in two neat rows. Waiting. Keeping their beady little eyes on me. Well-trained guard dogs. Gee, maybe they were even paper trained.   
  
Martouf tried to smile reassuringly at me, but I didn't feel much like being reassured. All I wanted was to go toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose with this Thellok Tristan. I didn't think it would be a problem since I was sure Kovacek would be occupied with a rear approach, low to the ground - leaving the frontal attack for me.   
  
"How is Doctor Jackson?" Martouf asked. Not the question I wanted to hear at that moment. I was trying my damnedest to keep my mind focused elsewhere, somewhere more productive. It didn't help that Martouf was obviously and genuinely concerned. Damn.   
  
"Alive," I answered. Short and abrupt. "And I intend to keep him that way, so how about you just point me in Thellok Tristan's direction."   
  
He raised his arm and pointed where the woman had just gone.   
  
"Whoa. Wait. That was– He's a she?" Oh, special. Way to go, Jack. Babble like an idiot. And besides, I doubted it mattered very much what kind of equipment Tristan did or didn't have stuffed in her pants. One look told me she was someone not to be taken lightly.   
  
"Yes." Martouf smiled slightly. "Thellok is her title and Tristan is her family name. She was heading down to the communications building to speak with the Karievesh Council. I believe she may be willing to negotiate for Doctor Jackson's release."   
  
"Uh-huh. Right. Just like that." Marty just looked at me, a slight frown on his face. He wasn't kidding. All right, I was starting to feel like a yo-yo, being yanked up and down at someone else's whim. "You're serious? You think she might let Daniel go?"   
  
"Perhaps. At least she did not dismiss the possibility out of hand."   
  
"Oh." So we were back to diplomacy. Or rather, Martouf and the Bootlick were back to diplomacy. I wasn't about to go there. But there was something I could do. Try and stack the deck a little, cover the bases, try and turn some stones. "Look, Marty. There's, uh, a bit of a problem with Daniel. Well, apart from having the shit beat out of him, but Doc Fraiser's got that under control. I'm more worried about his state of mind. He says he can't remember what happened to him since he's been missing."   
  
Martouf's frown deepened, and he cocked his head to the side. "This is not entirely unheard of among humans in the aftermath of trauma, even among Tok'Ra hosts. If he were blended, his symbiote would be able to assist in reconstructing his memories."   
  
"Well, he's not...blended, OK?" I suppressed a shudder at the thought. I'd take cuts and bruises over glowing eyes any day, thank you very much, both for myself _and_ for my team members. "But there is something you might be able to do for him. The Tok'Ra, I mean. Something you could lend us - one of those memory thingies like you used on Carter on the way to Netu. Not to keep. Just to borrow. I'll give it right back when we're done." I don't know why I was yammering like that. I think I was reluctant to inflict Daniel's own memories on himself. But what if it came to a trial? We had to be ready for that, and at that moment, the only one who hadn't already judged and convicted Daniel and who had been there to witness the events of the past nine days was Daniel himself.   
  
Martouf nodded without hesitation. "I believe that can be arranged, but I will need to have one brought from a Tok'Ra outpost. One of the diplomatic aides here with the negotiating team is an old friend of mine. He...owes me a few favors. I would go personally, but I think perhaps Doctor Jackson's interests would be best served by my continued presence among the Tok'Ra delegation. To ensure that other favors still owing are kept in mind."   
  
I couldn't help but snort out a small laugh. Oh, Marty was a sharp one - tacks and knives and razor blades. And he knew exactly where to place the cuts - just so. No problem with leaving him to try and whip up a "get out of jail free" card. I'd work on rounding up the secondary defenses. And the last-ditch efforts. Sounded like a plan to me.   
  
But first I had to wait for Martouf to find his friend - a mousy, gangly, bald-headed Tok'Ra who briefly stopped to introduce himself as Dasha and to let me know Martouf had been "detained" by some of the very same jerks who couldn't give a rat's ass about Daniel. I nodded sharply at Dasha, then watched with slight bemusement deteriorating into annoyance as he skittered over and tripped himself into one of the transport vehicles, finally zipping away to the Stargate after a jerky false start.   
  
And then I waited. Alone, apart from the glaring and smelly company of my personal pack of guardians.   
  
I waited outside in the cold wind, under a gray sky - perfectly suited to my mood. Waited because there was no way in hell I was going inside to meet the asshole Tok'Ra who had looked down their noses at the plight of one pitiful little unblended human, despite the fact he'd helped pull their chestnuts right out of Sokar's hellfire.   
  
Waited because I couldn't bring myself to go back to the holding cell. If I wanted to go back in, the Corncob Bitch would make Fraiser put the shackles back on Daniel. And then we'd have to take them off - and put them back on again when Dasha returned with the memory device. Or I could stay outside the cell, on the other side of the force field, and stare at the decrepit heap of humanity who was my friend, without being able to do a damn thing about his condition but give him sympathetic looks - which in my book equals pity, which is something I simply do not give to people I have the slightest bit of respect for.   
  
So I waited, thinking maybe I'd get lucky and the Valkyrie Tristan would be brief and to the point with her superiors and return while I was standing there - still waiting. Didn't happen. Oh, I have no doubt she was brief and to the point, but anytime you tack "council" or "board" onto the name of an authoritative body, you're bound to end up with a heap of bureaucracy. And politics. And factions and infighting and bickering and hidden agendas and backstabbing.   
  
I waited, arms folded across my chest and staring off toward a smoky horizon, my nose wrinkling every time the wind shifted and brought me a whiff of onions, sweaty leather and something like sour beer. That was all the reaction those Baskervilles were going to get from me. No pacing, though my feet were about ready to jump out of my boots. No shifting my weight from side to side, even though my left knee was throbbing. Storm coming.   
  
I waited for the hour or so - refused to even look down at my watch - it took Dasha to hop and skip over to the nearest Tok'Ra outpost - wherever the hell that might be - and return with a small black case which he held out to me with a slightly shaking hand.   
  
"Do you require instruction in the use of the device?" he asked, his voice quivering, practically vibrating with something like fear. Jesus but I wished he'd calm the fuck down. He was making me jumpy.   
  
I snatched the case impatiently away from him and said, "No. I've had one of these stuck in my head before, thank you very much." He paled and swallowed hard at my comment. Guess he must've had a bad trip down memory lane at some point in the past. Poor guy. Here, have some pity.   
  
I made a shooing motion with my hand and ended up choking back a bitter snort of laughter as he literally jumped backwards and quickly shuffle-stumbled back into the admin building.   
  
OK. Waiting over.   
  
Turning the box over in my hands, I wasn't sure if that was a good thing.   
  
On to round two of "Shuffle the Shackles." I suggested to the Corncob that if she wiped the smug look off her face, maybe the Butcher would be able to resist the urge to rip her head off and shit down her neck. Yes, I actually said that to her. In those exact words. I had her place in the hierarchy pegged. She was nothing but a lackey, so I felt pretty safe in saying whatever I wanted to her. Yeah, maybe it was a bit of a crap shoot. She might've refused to let me back into the cell. But somehow I didn't think that was within her purview to decide.   
  
I was right. She apparently had enough leeway to glare at me and make me wait for a few extra seconds. I'd say she'd also been given the authority - or more likely, the directive - to insist the prisoner be shackled whenever the force field was deactivated. But Fraiser had already taken care of that as soon as she caught sight of me. Good job, Doc. Probably equally as unwilling to give the Corncob any opportunity to tell us what to do. A small victory, maybe, but wars are made out of battles and battles are made out of skirmishes.   
  
Daniel was still out cold in any event, so it wasn't like it mattered to him whether he was cuffed or not. Judging from his behavior so far, it wasn't like he would care even if he were conscious. Well, at least not if the Corncob was out of his immediate sight. Otherwise, we might be in for an encore performance of Daniel on the vertical force field trampoline.   
  
He must've been subjected to some kind of conditioning. That was pretty damn obvious to anyone who knew him even halfway decently. But it had to be extremely sophisticated to take effect so quickly - only a day or two if the reports that he'd been running amuck for six days were to be believed. And to provoke that degree of screaming and spitting fury toward one of his so-called enemies... He hadn't made any aggressive moves directly toward me or Fraiser apart from the first lunge when he hadn't realized who was there. There had to be some kind of trigger. Gee, maybe he'd been implanted with a corncob detector.   
  
Fraiser already had the shackles off again by the time I crossed the floor and dropped down to sit across from her, Daniel between us. I spared a brief glance at his face and suppressed a shudder. Usually, there's a sort of peaceful quality to his face when his eyes are closed and you can't see the shadows that are a permanent part of him if you know where to look. Some people say everyone looks like that when they're asleep, but that's bullshit. I _know_ I don't look anything like that when I'm sleeping.   
  
This time, though, that fleeting hint of tranquility was missing. There wasn't anything there but pale skin and livid bruises. Like looking at a corpse. His eyelids weren't flickering, and there definitely wasn't any movement underneath. No dreams. A stupor devoid of nightmares. And there I was ready to wake him up and drag the memories out of him, no matter the bloody tracks that might be left behind.   
  
"What's that?" Fraiser's soft voice interrupted my thoughts. She nodded toward the box still held tightly in my hands.   
  
I looked down and popped the catch on the lid. Yup. Exactly as advertised. One Tok'Ra mind probe. Open wide and say "ahh."   
  
"Is that what I think it is?"   
  
I looked up and met her cautiously questioning eyes. She'd never seen one before. Never had the pleasure of having an extra hole drilled in her head. But she had SG-1's reports and descriptions. Enough for her to put two and two together. I nodded.   
  
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she said slowly. She was probably right. But I didn't know what else to do. It was worth the risk. Wasn't it?   
  
Daniel, damn him, must've been playing possum. Stupid-ass animals. Stare into the headlights of an oncoming semi until it splatters them to kingdom come. "What isn't a good idea?" At least he was asking a question, which indicated some level of normal brain activity, and he sounded almost like his usual self. Just a hint of huskiness in his voice. Fraiser helped him sit up and handed him a canteen, while I snapped the Tok'Ra box shut and discreetly laid it on the floor by my hip, out of his direct line of sight. He sipped some water before dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, wincing as he brushed over a particularly nasty abrasion at the corner of his mouth. "Jack?"   
  
I returned his gaze evenly. Shadows, flittering rapidly around the edges. "Daniel?"   
  
"What are you–" He paused and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "What are you doing here?"   
  
Whoa. Wait a minute. I'd been expecting him to press the point of what Fraiser and I had been talking about. Not to ask what I was doing there. Oh yeah, Danny Boy. Saw you were in prison, said "screw it" and decided to split. Have a nice execution.   
  
Fraiser jumped in and took over. Good ol' reliable Janet Fraiser. Always ready to sort through a mess of scattered pieces, no matter whether you were dealing with body parts or those proverbial marbles. "What do you mean, Daniel?"   
  
He blinked at her for a few seconds, then said, "I mean how did you get here? How did you find me?"   
  
That sounded somewhat promising, like he was taking some sort of interest in what was going on around him, what was happening to him. Much better than the horrible laugh and listless "whatever" we'd got from him before. Maybe the sedative had actually _un_ scrambled his brain.   
  
But then Fraiser asked another, more pointed question. "What's the last thing you remember, Daniel?"   
  
He frowned, looked from Fraiser to me, to the ceiling, to the wall. "I, uh... I remember P4X119 - going back to Earth. Or trying to. But something happened. I got diverted...or something. But there wasn't any energy discharge, no staff weapons or anything like that. Was there?"   
  
"No," I said quietly. "Not on 119. But there was here apparently."   
  
"Yes." He inhaled sharply through his nose, let it out through his mouth. "Yes, there was. Some kind of battle going on. Energy weapons. Not Goa'uld, though."   
  
"No. Humans."   
  
"Feloren," he supplied, then added, "and Karievesh." A huge mother of a shadow slithered across his face as he said the second name - a cold and vicious shadow wrapped around a furnace of glowing coals.   
  
I exchanged glances with Fraiser. She seemed to be seeing exactly what I was seeing - and she wasn't liking it any more than I was. She stepped in again, diverted him. "So is that how you were injured?" We both knew that wasn't likely. Maybe some of the bruises could be accounted for that way, but most of the cuts and abrasions were too fresh. They'd been inflicted more recently than nine days ago. But her question did manage to sweep some of that god awful darkness away.   
  
He looked down at himself, turning his hands palm up then back over again, staring at the bandage wrapped around the gash in his left palm. "No. Maybe. I, uh... I don't really remember. The 'Gate threw me. I banged my head pretty hard."   
  
"But you remember a battle?" I prodded, ignoring Fraiser's sharp glance. At least I had the presence of mind not to repeat the names of the parties involved. Didn't want to see that particular reaction again.   
  
"Yes." He nodded, then frowned. "I think. I– I'm not sure. There was screaming. And blood." His voice quivered a little, then he shook his head quick and sharp and turned toward me, his eyes latching onto me. "But how did _you_ get here?"   
  
"Uh, through the Stargate." He stared at me blankly. Hey, ask a stupid question... "A little more controlled on the landing than you, though." Lame, Jack - really lame. Daniel didn't laugh. Didn't crack a hint of a smile.   
  
Fraiser stepped back up to the plate. "Daniel, do you remember us being here before? I mean before right now?" See, that's what I like so much about her - direct and to the point. Combined with a certain knack to find the point in the first place.   
  
He was silent for a moment, then said hesitantly, "No. Were you here? Before now?"   
  
Oh, man. Just when I thought we were starting to get a handle on things. Fraiser patted his arm and told him it was OK. Wrong thing to say to Daniel just then. She probably knew that, but just like I sometimes try to hide behind stupid jokes, she retreats back into the rote world of bedside manner and doctor catch phrases. Sometimes it works. Not this time.   
  
"No, it's not OK," Daniel said, sitting up straighter, his eyes darting from me to Fraiser and back again. "You were here before, weren't you? You wouldn't have asked me that otherwise. But I don't remember. Why can't I remember?" I reached out and laid a firm hand on his shoulder, hoping that would calm him down, but also wanting to keep his attention from Fraiser. She was shifting to her knees so she could reach her medical bag. Time for another jab of joy juice.   
  
Normally, I wouldn't be so eager to see one of my team members stuck full of needles, but I also didn't want anything to happen to Fraiser. She'd already been tossed across a room once by an out-of-his-mind Daniel thanks to Shyla's damned sarcophagus. Somehow I doubted Fraiser had a spare doctor tucked into her bag, and it certainly didn't look like the Karievesh would be willing to help out in that department. It was for his own good. Really it was.   
  
He was trying to jerk away from me, so I tightened my grip on his shoulder a fraction. I looked him straight in the eyes and said in the calmest voice I could muster, "You might have a concussion, Daniel." Duh, Jack. It was a dumb thing to say, more like a Fraiser line, but it just popped out. I briefly considered reassuring him the concussion was why he was having trouble remembering things - but I wouldn't lie to him. I doubted a simple whack on the noggin had rattled him so hard. Not to mention altering his normal patterns of behavior to that extent.   
  
He stared blankly at me. I think I could've told him a giant alien mistook him for a Slurpee and stuck a straw through his skull, and probably would've gotten the same reaction.   
  
He blinked. "How long has it been?"   
  
I didn't see how I could possibly beat around the bush on that one. It was a direct and straightforward question. "Nine days."   
  
More blinking and staring. "That's crazy," he finally said, a trace of a smile pulling his mouth briefly upwards. "That can't be right. It can't have been more than a few hours, a day maybe. We were on P4X119. I remember that. And then we got separated, I ended up here." The smile vanished and confusion crowded into his eyes. "There was a battle. I was taken prisoner. No. No, that's not right. I was rescued. By the Feloren. Yes, that's right. I remember. They took me back to their camp. It was nighttime." His voice grew softer and his eyes lost their focus - looking somewhere else. Remembering. "Cold and windy. It must've been raining, the ground was soft. Muddy. Stuck to my boots. No, that's not right, either. That was later. When I– After I–"   
  
His eyes started blinking rapidly and his face scrunched up. I don't think I can even begin to adequately describe his expression. If I had to pick one word, it would be "horrified," but it was much, much more than that. A chill went through me like nothing I'd ever felt, outside of the guts of the Stargate or a cavern in Antarctica. I had to look away. I couldn't help it. It was a reflex, a knee-jerk reaction, but he kept talking, his voice the barest of whispers, an auditory reflection of what I'd seen in his face. "It wasn't rain. It was– Oh God, it was blood. So much blood. All over me, all over my hands, all over the bodies. Dead bodies." There was a brief pause, then words so full of anguish they would've cracked a stone cold heart wide open. "Oh God. What have I done?"   
  
My hands balled into fists, knuckles burning with the urge to pound someone or something to a bloody pulp. My eyes locked on Fraiser's hands as they pushed Daniel's sleeve up, found a vein. Must’ve been different stuff than the time before. More precise, less desperate, but no less necessary. The needle pierced his arm, the plunger going down and clear liquid vanishing. Not a single word of protest. He just kept muttering "oh God" over and over again, in between failed attempts to catch his breath. He was breathing hard, like he’d just run a mile. And I was right there with him, horrified.   



	3. Blood and Broken Bones

Slight pressure on Daniel's shoulder was all it took for Fraiser to get him to lie back down. In fact, he went down so easily, unresisting and boneless, she had to put her other arm behind his back to keep him from smacking into the floor. I automatically leaned forward to help, but as soon as he reached the blanket, he pulled away. Rolled onto his side, facing away from me, and pulled his arms tight across his chest. My mind was rolling over a litany of repeated curse words, running the gamut of every single one I knew and back again. I guess I was trying to drown out the sound of his ragged breathing as the drugs pulled him under. Didn't work. Just made me angrier at what he'd been put through and, truth be told, at myself - for not preventing it from happening, for not finding him sooner, for being so goddamned ineffective even after we had found him.   
  
I rolled to my feet, grabbed the box with the memory device and stuffed it into an inner jacket pocket. Time for a good pacing session in front of the force field, the almost subliminal whine of energy giving me a major case of the jitters, accompanied by a massive outbreak of goosebumps. I half hoped the Corncob would come back so I could carry through with Daniel's aborted assault, give my own fists something to crack and smash and grind.   
  
I probably would've gone on stalking back and forth for a good long while if Fraiser hadn't planted herself right in my path. I've stared down and knocked down muscle-bound mountains literally twice her size - but somehow, there's more force and unyielding substance in that compact body than you'd find in your average linebacker. I hauled up short, glared at her for all of two seconds, then went and slumped down in the corner across from Daniel.   
  
She joined me and we sat side by side, backs to the wall - but she didn't press me to talk right away. Yep, she's got brains and good sense to match every bit of her pint-sized brawn.   
  
Eventually, we did talk. Actually, more like she talked and I listened while she ran down the list of possible causes for Daniel's erratic behavior and memory loss. Head trauma - not likely, as I'd already guessed, since he didn't seem to have been knocked upside the head too badly - but still not to be ruled out entirely. Psychological trauma - could account for the holes in his memory, repression and stuff like that. A defensive reaction to whatever waking nightmares he'd been exposed to, whatever conditioning and outright torture he might've been subjected to. Residual chemical effects - hallucinogens or similar seriously mind-fucking crap. She even threw in the possibility of some kind of neural implant, like a Mr. Hyde version of Urgo.   
  
She said she really had no way of knowing, nothing to provide a sound basis for a diagnosis - not without being able to run extensive tests, both physical and psychological, none of which was going to happen with the basic equipment she'd brought with her. She even made a crack about wishing the SGC was more like Star Trek, complete with medical tricorders and panacea hypos.   
  
I actually listened to all of this, right down to the seriously scientific mumbo-jumbo. Made good and sure I had it all sorted out. Asked questions - perceptive questions evidently, judging from the way she looked at me like I'd just sprouted another head. Even followed along as she rambled through a fairly complex explanation of theories of memory which, under normal circumstances, would've had my eyes glazed over inside of two minutes.   
  
Not that I knew the first thing about how to apply any of this knowledge. But I didn't know what else to do at the moment - other than wait and stare, and I'd already had quite enough of that, thank you. At least Fraiser didn't smell like beer and onions. Just the opposite, in fact - nice and clean, like soap. Ivory soap. A comforting bit of normalcy.   
  
Marty showed up just as she was in the middle of telling me about a guy who had part of his brain surgically removed and was never again able to process anything into long-term memory. Good timing on Marty's part. I really didn't want to apply that particular example to Daniel's current situation - although even in a case like that, he'd probably be in better shape than most, already having enough crap stuffed into his head to last ten average lifetimes. But then again, he'd be stuck with nothing more than that, never able to learn anything new, frozen in his own little bubble of time. Yeah, that would probably be Daniel's version of a living hell.   
  
I got up and walked slowly over to the door, noting the Corncob lurking behind Marty - just waiting, no doubt, to exercise her limited authority. I ignored Marty for the moment and curtly told Her High and Mightiness that Daniel wasn't available to provide any amusement at the moment, but if she came back later, he might treat her to an intimate encounter with severe body trauma. She tried to give me her version of a withering glare, but it came out more of a childish pout. Aww, poor baby.   
  
Marty watched us stare each other down for a few seconds, then gently but firmly told her to deactivate the force field. She brightened a little at the request, crisply informing him the prisoner would have to be shackled before she could comply. She had her orders, blah, blah, blah. I waved a dismissive hand and told her to take a hike. Not that I had any particular aversion to Marty coming into the cell, but I didn't see any real benefit in his doing that. We could talk just fine through the force field. She made one more pitiful attempt at a baleful glare, then stomped off down the corridor.   
  
The Corncob effectively disposed of, I asked Marty, as casually as I possibly could, "What's up?"   
  
He gave me that slightly mournful, deadly serious look he did oh so well. "Thellok Tristan is still in conference with the Karievesh Council, but in the meantime, your Major Kovacek was able to persuade her second-in-command to allow him to view the evidence against Doctor Jackson."  
  
Oh, shit. This did not sound good at all. "You saw it, too?" I asked, even though the intensity of mournful and deadly serious he was putting on made me pretty certain he had. He nodded. "And?" I managed to say after a hefty pause during which I heard Daniel's voice repeating "oh God," over and over again in the back of my mind.   
  
"It is...disturbing." He looked like he was going to say more, maybe treat me to the gory details or at least an edited version, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he said, "Kovacek has asked that a copy be sent to Major Carter for analysis - to ensure there is no tampering or falsification. The recording technology is not especially sophisticated, very similar to your digital optical discs, so she should have no difficulty identifying any irregularities. I have offered Dasha's services as courier. He is...reliable, if nothing else."   
  
I closed my eyes briefly, realizing that somewhere along the line, I'd gone from not believing - no way, no how - Daniel had actually done what he was accused of doing, to wondering what the hell could've possibly turned the normally calm and collected, if occasionally excitable and scatterbrained, Doctor Daniel Jackson into a stark raving homicidal lunatic. Screw all that stuff about blood lust and battle rage and the heat of the moment. Didn't apply to Daniel Jackson. Sure, he'd killed before, but I'd be willing to bet the family jewels he'd never actually enjoyed it. More of a necessity, a defensive measure. But something had happened to him on Torrhena to turn him into...something else.   
  
"OK," I finally said. "Thanks for keeping me updated. Just let me know when Tristan gets back. Maybe there's some way we can avoid having this go to a trial."   
  
"That is my hope as well," Martouf said with a note of stubbornness and finality in his voice. He didn't turn to leave, though. Instead, he shot a pointed look over my shoulder, to where Daniel was lying. "Have you used the memory device yet?"   
  
"No. Haven't really had the chance. He's pretty much turned inside out and upside down."   
  
Marty pulled his gaze away from Daniel, looked me straight in the eye, stern and serious. Another one of those looks perfectly native and natural to that long and dour face. "Perhaps you should use it soon, while you have the chance. There may be extenuating circumstances. Anything might help...should we fail to prevent a trial." With one last, quick glance back into the cell, he said, "I will let you know as soon as Tristan returns." Then he left, his feet making no sound as he strode down the corridor with his back ramrod straight.   
  
I went over to Fraiser, pressed my back against the wall and slid down to my haunches. There was still the possibility the Karievesh Council would relent and turn Daniel over to us. Wasn't holding my breath there. Maybe there was some way to cut a deal with Tristan or at least get some useful information out of her. Couldn't do anything about that until she got back from the pow-wow with the muckety-mucks. There was always the jailbreak idea. Wouldn't be much of a challenge to deal with the Corncob, but the Mongol biker gang was another matter altogether. Not to mention the risk of seriously pissing off the Tok'Ra's favorite arms merchants, and by extension, the Tok'Ra themselves. And leaving Marty and Kovacek in a sticky situation. Marty could handle himself, and even Kovacek would probably manage to muddle through, but that smacked too much of leaving someone behind.   
  
Then there was the option of going through with the trial. Hey, we'd pulled a kinda sorta win right out of our asses with Teal'c when he faced the Cor'ai. Why not here, too? Of course, now we were dealing with fresh blood and a whole slew of pissed off people instead of one stubborn son-of-a-bitch holding onto a decades-old grudge. Well, OK, we did actually lose that trial, but Teal'c proved his integrity by helping to defend the villagers from the Jaffa who paid an unexpected visit. Maybe if we could just arrange... Yeah, right. Forget it. We needed to avoid the trial.   
  
Not much to go on. Too much left to chance, left in other people's hands. I sighed and scrubbed my hands through my hair. Charlie Foxtrot. Big time.   
  
Just as I was beginning to think it was a coin toss as to whether it would be me or Fraiser to break the silence, Daniel stood my expectations on end yet again. Damn but he's got a talent for that. All he had to do was say my name, but that was enough to set me and Fraiser to exchanging startled looks. How long had he been awake? And listening? "Yeah, Daniel," I said, pushing myself back up, wincing as my knee groaned and cracked.   
  
He was still turned on his side and didn't move or respond right away, so I thought maybe, just maybe, he'd been talking in his sleep. No such luck. "Martouf's right. I have to remember. I _need_ to remember. There's so much. All mixed up. Fragments. I have to know. I have to. No matter what happens in the end, I need to _know_."  
  
Crap. That at least answered the question of how long he'd been awake. He levered himself up with one arm and turned to sit cross-legged - moving slowly and stiffly, his face rigid.   
  
"OK, Daniel," I said, wary, knowing I'd never get Daniel to accept an out-and-out "no." "But how about you let Fraiser give you another quick once-over first? You've been acting...kind of flaky." Probably not the most sensitive or diplomatic way to phrase it, but I couldn't think of another way to put it. Besides, it probably would've freaked him out if I'd started acting all mushy and touchy-feely.   
  
"Yeah, I know," he answered - simple, direct and matter-of-fact. He lowered his head and pinched at the bridge of his nose, just like he'd done before. For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder what had happened to his glasses. "My head hurts," he added, and left it at that.   
  
"How about a painkiller, Daniel?" Fraiser said as she got up and went over to him, snagging her medical bag along the way.   
  
"No. Thanks." Concise, emotionless, without looking up. Nice try, Doc.   
  
"OK." Her voice was shaded with her very best soft and reassuring, accompanied by a hand on his arm for good measure. She could get away with that. Standard operating procedure for her. "But I still need to check your vitals before I let you anywhere near that memory device." With an undeniable hint of steel, that special Fraiser touch. No bargains to be had there.   
  
Daniel had the presence of mind to recognize he'd have to concede the point. That was a good sign. A small sign. OK, minuscule, a no-brainer to anyone who's been a patient of Fraiser's even one time. But still, it was something in the middle of a whole lot of nothing good.   
  
Her exam got no more reaction out of him than a flinch when she subjected him to the penlight. The rest of the five minutes or so she took to poke and prod were spent in silence punctuated by the rustle of her slight movements, the gasp of the blood pressure cuff being pumped up, the beeping of the thermometer. He still had a low-grade fever and his blood pressure was slightly below normal, but she gave me a nod. Daniel got a gentle squeeze on the shoulder as she moved back to give me space to get in next to him. Not that much space, though. It was clear she was going to be keeping her eagle eyes on him every step of the way.   
  
I fished the box out of my jacket, opened it and extracted the contents. Nothing but a small metal disc and a stubby metal cylinder. Such a deceptively simple and harmless looking device. I guess it might've been mostly harmless if you were a person with mainly happy memories and no major tragedies. That sure as hell didn't describe Daniel, and that's only taking into account the shit I'd personally seen him wade through. Probably doesn't describe anyone who's managed to live past childhood and isn't completely self-deluded.   
  
I knelt on the floor next to him and gave him a long look - eyebrow raised, asking him if he was _sure_ without needing to say a word. No words were needed for his answer, either. That look of stubborn determination is a Daniel Jackson classic, and there's only two possible responses. Give in and do what he wants, or tell him "no" realizing full well that he'll go and do it the second your back is turned. I wasn't about to turn my back on him at that point.   
  
His temples were both pretty badly bruised and scraped up, but there was a clear patch behind one of his ears, just about where Martouf put the device on Carter before we launched ourselves in the escape pods to reach the surface of Netu. Descent into Hell.   
  
A quick press of disc to skin, a flinch - from both of us - and it was in. Nothing left to do but turn it on.   
  
"Ready?" I asked as I settled back on my knees, the activation device grasped between my fingers. I was holding on just a little too tight - the tips of my fingers were turning white, almost as pale as his face - so I forced myself to relax and give him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.   
  
He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, tilted his head side to side, sat up a little straighter, tucked his ankles a little tighter into his cross-legged position. Nodded once and turned his eyes down, looking at his hands, clasped together in his lap, knuckles as white as my fingers had been.   
  
No reason to wait any longer. What was done, was done. It was in the past and couldn't be changed. No reason to be afraid of it. It was only terrible because it was still unknown. Or so I kept telling myself.   
  
He was silent, motionless, for a good long moment after I waved the activator over the disc. "Daniel?" I said hesitantly, wondering if I'd done it right. "Still with us?"   
  
He gave a sharp nod of his head.   
  
"Do you remember anything?"   
  
There was a long pause. "No. I mean, I'm not sure. There's _something_ there, but I can't quite..." His voice drifted off, and his forehead wrinkled up then smoothed out again.   
  
"OK. How about we go back to P4X119?"   
  
"Why?" His voice was softer now, drifting, somewhat dreamy. "There's nothing there but lizards and plants. Lots and lots of plants."   
  
"I don't mean literally go back there, Daniel. I mean think back to when we were on P4X119."   
  
"Lizards," he said again, "black lizards with bright blue stripes down their tails."   
  
"Uh, yeah. That's right. Go forward a little bit, to when we went back through the 'Gate. There was an energy surge and you got separated from us. You ended up here on Torrhena."   
  
"Yes. I remember." His voice shifted to crisp and clear, and he looked up, his eyes wide open and gazing steadily forwards, but not looking at what was in front of him. Seeing something else entirely. In his mind, in the past. "There was shouting, smoke. Cold. My head hurt."   
  
"Yeah, you banged your head. You told us. The Feloren took you back to their camp after they...rescued...you." I hesitated to use that word because I had sincere doubts that was what had really happened, but that was the word he had used and I was hoping it would trigger something.   
  
"Yes. There was a...a building. Clean and white, but cold. Very cold." His arms wrapped across his chest and he rubbed absently at the sleeves of his jumpsuit, shivering a bit. "They gave me something for the pain. A shot. Here." One hand snaked up behind his head and gripped the back of his neck. He started to blink rapidly and sucked in several quick, panting breaths.   
  
"Daniel? What is it? What do you remember?" I leaned forwards, trying to keep my voice as calm and even as possible, not wanting to spook him, but still gently prodding.   
  
"I– I don't remember. I– No. God, no. Oh please, no." Both hands were on the back of his neck now and he was hunching forwards, rocking slightly back and forth. Moaning. Trying to pull himself into a ball.   
  
Jesus Christ. The things - horrible things - that were worming their way through my head. Torture, brutality, mind-fucking made into a science. Anything and everything imaginable to get you to break, to turn, to crumble. I knew the possibilities all too well. Gagged at the memory of those things being done to me, wanted to scream bloody murder at the thought of those things being done to Daniel. He wouldn't have gone down easily. Not without fighting, tooth and nail.   
  
The urge to yell my anger at the top of my lungs was so strong it didn't register at first that Daniel actually was screaming - starting with a strained and choking groan, but quickly degenerating into something so raw and ragged, I honestly thought he was going to spring at any second. Attack us, blindly and in a rage, like he'd tried to attack the Gestapo bitch.   
  
My body tensed defensively, but my brains kicked in a split second afterwards - and flashed back to Carter screaming, begging for Martouf to turn it off, to stop the memories of Jolinar's torture on Netu. Thought instantly translated into action and I reached out and deactivated the memory probe.   
  
The howling trailed off into a gargling sob, but he was still doubled over, his hands laced together behind his head and clenched so tightly that the creases across his knuckles stood out stark red.   
  
"Daniel!" I shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, hard. Anything to get him to stop making those noises - awful noises, choking and gasping, alternately groaning and keening like an animal in pain. "Daniel! C'mon, snap out of it!" I tried to pull his hands apart so I could get him to look at me. It took more effort than I really wanted to apply. I didn't want to hurt him, but I finally had to shove my thumbs under his wrists and dig into the tendons until his hands let go.   
  
With the release of the downwards pressure, his head snapped up - and he was silent. Thank God. His eyes were squeezed shut - Christ, his whole face was squeezed shut - but he relaxed by degrees, the creases in his forehead evening out, his eyes slowly opening.   
  
Fraiser was hovering with a hypodermic, ready to grab and stab if I gave the sign. Hell, probably ready to grab and stab even if I directly ordered her not to - if she felt it was necessary. She's always right about these things. So I've been told, time and again, and so I've witnessed, time and time again. I turned to meet her eyes, steadily, evenly, and shook my head. She hesitated a moment, then put a cap on the needle. We were in agreement. He'd had enough already, and it wasn't like the stuff she'd already given him had worked very well. Yet another weirdness to worry about, added to the pile.   
  
"Jack?" Daniel's voice was so soft it was barely audible, but it made me whip my head around like he'd shouted in my ear in the middle of a deep sleep. He was looking down, at his hands. At my hands. I was still gripping his wrists. Crap. I let go, muttered an apology.   
  
"It's OK," he said, without conviction - just hollow, empty words. "I– I'm sorry I...reacted that way."   
  
That should've been my cue to respond with some nice, empty platitudes, but I just didn't have the heart. Fraiser was saying something to him about lying down and resting again, but he shook his head. "No. I can't. Not now. I– I think I may be starting to remember...something. I'm not sure. It was dark. Completely dark. No light or sound. Not cold, not hot. No sense of feeling." He looked up, his eyes darting between me and Fraiser. "Nothing at all. But I was there. I remember being there. Wherever it was."   
  
Fraiser cleared her throat, a soft sound that seemed unnaturally harsh in the cool gray hush. "You may have been subjected to some sort of sensory deprivation. Possibly as part of a brainwashing procedure." The voice of reason, hypothesizing, trying to make sense out of the senseless and brutally inhuman. But it was what Daniel needed. It was a lifeline to him.   
  
"Brainwashing?" he repeated, drawing the word out as if he were turning the idea over in his mind. "Is that what you think happened to me?" A simple question, plain and without emotion. With a hint of disbelief, but mixed with something like hope.   
  
"It's possible, Daniel."   
  
He turned his head to the side, to stare at the wall of the cell, and was silent for a long moment. I quashed the urge to say something, let him have that moment to collect whatever it was he was collecting - his thoughts, his emotions, his composure. When he turned back, he had that look again - the one that says, _if you stand in my way, I'll walk around you like you're not even there_. "Possible isn't good enough. I have to know. Without that, it doesn't matter if I walk out of here or not."   
  
I knew exactly where he was coming from. I know what it's like to be so twisted around you don't know which way is up anymore, to have memories you don't want to - can't - face, to have nightmares that drive you away from sleep until you're so exhausted you can collapse and sleep without dreaming.   
  
There have been times in my life when there was no way I could've possibly sorted out all the horrors I'd witnessed. The orders I'd carried out in the name of God and country, things that would've been called crimes or even atrocities under other circumstances. Times when there was no way humanly possible to put it in perspective. The horrible, dark times when all I could do was cram it so deep down inside it would never see the light of day again, drown it with alcohol, obliterate it any way possible, no matter how much collateral damage occurred in the process.   
  
It absolutely cut me to the quick to think Daniel might be facing something like that, the kind of experience that no matter how you turn it, no matter how long you look at it and think about it - and try not to think about it - there's no way through. No way around. No way under or over. Attempting to do any of the above ends up being a huge, fucking exercise in futility. But that doesn't mean you don't try. Even if you turn around and walk away in the end.   
  
So I reactivated the memory device, just like he wanted. Fraiser didn't object. She just sat there, clutching her med kit, exchanging anxious glances with me as the seconds ticked by without a peep or a stirring out of Daniel. His entire body was so tense he was practically thrumming with restrained energy, and his eyes were focused so intently I wouldn't have been surprised if the spot on the floor he was staring at had burst into flames.   
  
He let out a gasp, sucked a shuddering breath back in. Jesus. He'd been holding his breath. And now he was doing it again, his mouth tightly shut, his lips quivering and an intermittent tic tugging at his cheek. I grabbed his arm, shook gently. "Daniel." God, it was so hard to sit there and watch him pushing himself like that, trying so hard to break through the nothingness into light and color and sound.   
  
His jaw momentarily unclenched, long enough to pant, "Turn it up."   
  
"Daniel..." I squeezed his arm tighter, thinking the pain would divert him, jar his single-minded fixation just enough to get him to take a step back and regroup. Yeah, right. Not when Daniel Jackson is hell-bent on figuring something out. No way, no how. Damn him for that anyway.   
  
"Turn - it - up," he said again, each word forced out on the end of a wheeze.   
  
I felt Fraiser's hand on my arm, looked over at her, saw equal parts fear and determination in her face - her own brand of hell-bent stubbornness, bound and determined to do what needed to be done, to hack and slash and cauterize if that's what it took - but sensible enough to be scared shitless in the process. She wasn't saying anything, though. She was letting it be my call. Oh, Christ.   
  
"Jack. Please." A breathy whisper, his body shaking with the tension, sweat dribbling down the sides of his face. And those eyes... No shadows, wide open, pure spirit and determination, everything out in the open and scaldingly bare. There was no other answer to give to a plea like that. I did what he asked.   
  
There was no screaming this time. I would've preferred the screaming.   
  
His eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. His nostrils flared, the tic started up again. Still no sound, other than an almost mechanical clicking noise - his breath catching in the back of his throat. His hands clenched into fists, his shoulders hunched forward, straining to bring up the scream that wouldn't come.   
  
It couldn't have been more than a handful of seconds. There's no way I would've let it go on any longer than that. No way in hell. My hand flashed out to turn the device off, before my brain had even formed the conscious thought.   
  
He ducked. Goddamn him. He flinched and pulled away. A reflex - quick and sharp. Had to be. I grabbed at him, somehow managed to get a fistful of that too-short hair and yank his head hard to the side, giving me clear access to shut down that goddamned piece of shit. Turned it off, decided for some screwy reason that wasn't good enough, and extracted it, roughly. Let him go, sat back and numbly stared at the small trickle of blood running down his neck. Tried to catch my breath. Tried to keep my hands from shaking. Somehow managed to catch him as he doubled over, held his shoulders as he threw up what little was in his stomach. Kept hanging on while he heaved and gagged. Then he tried to sit up, only to collapse against me with a final shudder.   
  
Fraiser was on him in a flash, taking vitals, her face grim, her hands firm and steady.   
  
He was trembling - exhaustion, fear, shock. I don't know. Probably all three and some other feelings that don't even have names. He was muttering something, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his head pressed hard against my chest, so hard it hurt. I leaned forwards slightly, trying to make out what he was saying. Something about blood, bones breaking. Death. Not being able to stop. Trying so hard, trying to fight it. "No use, can't, can't do it." Then a string of words poured out, agonizingly clear. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. Please forgive me."   
  
Whether he was actually praying to God, or begging for someone else to forgive him, I have no idea. I never asked him. And I never will.   



	4. Home Movies from Hell

Fraiser reluctantly gave him another shot - one more round of sedation. I could tell she was frustrated - the lack of options to do anything more than patch him up and dope him up eating at her from the inside out. She and I are really more alike than most people realize. Neither one of us can stand inaction, that feeling of helplessness, of needing so badly to do something - _anything_. But all we could do was sit there in silence, watchful and waiting.   
  
Neither one of us seemed to have the energy to talk any more. The best we could do was share the support of one another's presence and hope that somehow, some of it was reaching Daniel too. Funny how minutes and hours can melt together and run away when you're resigned to waiting.   
  
A temporary reprieve finally came when Martouf turned back up. That meant some kind of news at the very least. He wouldn't have come back just to hover and stare. Unfortunately, that seemed to be the Corncob's intention.   
  
Marty told her once again to open the force field to let me out, and she once again launched into her pontificating upon ironclad Karievesh security measures. This time, though, Marty moved faster than my mouth and did something damn surprising - something that still makes me shake my head with admiration every time I remember it. He grabbed the Corncob by one arm and one shoulder and propelled her across the hall, forcing her hand down onto the palm reader before she could even so much as squeak. She squirmed violently, trying to break his grip, but Marty just turned his head to me and said very calmly, "You may exit now, Colonel O'Neill."   
  
As soon as I was out, he let go of her, allowing her to reactivate the barrier with an indignant slap to the palm reader.   
  
"There now," Marty said to her, his voice as even and pleasant as could be. "That wasn't so difficult, was it? And much more efficient than the Karievesh method."   
  
Another time, another place, and I might've laughed out loud. Smirked at the very least. But I was so tired and weary and fed up to high heaven with waiting that I didn't even react. My eyebrow might've twitched. That was all.   
  
The Corncob was occupied huffing and puffing and brushing herself off, all the while fixing me and Marty with her very best _you'll pay for that_ glare. Yeah, I was scared. Not. At least not of her.

Marty turned away from her without any further hint of acknowledgment and drew me off to the side. Thellok Tristan was back and had asked to speak with me. Me. Personally. Marty had no more clue what was up with that than I did. She'd been dealing with Kovacek up until that point. Then again, maybe that was all the explanation I needed. Several hours with Kovacek would've made me seriously consider sitting down and having a nice chat even with Apophis as an alternative.   
  
I turned back to the cell, saw that Fraiser had moved closer to Daniel. "I'll be back soon," I said. She gave me a nod - all the reassurance she had, but it would have to do.   
  
As Marty and I walked down the corridor behind the rigid back of a flame-cheeked Corncob, he brought me up to date on the analysis of the recordings. Not good news, unfortunately. They were genuine. No sign of tampering, no matter how thoroughly Carter poked and prodded, no matter how many fancy gadgets she applied to the disc. In Dasha's words, she appeared "upset" by the results. Like I needed to be told that. Duh. Oh no, Marty, I'm sure Dasha the Dimwit must've misunderstood. That's really her happy face. I'll bet she's turning cartwheels to see a close friend, someone she thought she knew better than her own brother, doing his very best Jack the Ripper impersonation.   
  
I guess I'd lost track of time more completely than I realized because it was full dark when we emerged from the cellblock. I wasn't expecting to have sleet flung into my face by a bitch of a cold wind, either. How apropos. From shitty to shittier.   
  
The downhill slide of the weather wasn't helping the tempers of my waiting pack of guard dogs, either. I swear one of them actually growled at me. Whatever. Fuck 'em.   
  
There were only a few lights scattered around the compound - dim, utilitarian, blue-white in color, barely enough to see by. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and followed Marty's lead across the freezing mud, friggin' and fraggin' under my breath at the unsteady footing. I did get the minor satisfaction of hearing a blurted curse and a squelching thump as one of the guards slipped and fell into the slop.   
  
Peachy. Just peachy. Gorgeous weather you've got here, guys. The perfect incarnation of shithole. At least it was helping me to stoke my already simmering anger, getting me ready to face down Thellok Tristan. She wouldn't dismiss me with a glance this time. No way in Hell - or any other planet.   
  
Marty took me as far as the entryway to the admin building and handed me off to a sturdily built soldier clad in the ubiquitous black body armor - helmetless version - nicely trimmed out with a humorless glare and the firm set of a hatchet jaw. Could've given Teal'c a run for his money in the stony-faced department. Sort of an image in negative, in fact, with pale skin, a shock of white hair and icy blue eyes.   
  
Brief introductions provided by Marty before he excused himself to rejoin the other Tok'Ra let me know this was Imaga, Tristan's second-in-command. I got the slightest of bows from him, which I mirrored back at precisely the same angle and for the same duration. After that, I followed him without another word.   
  
Several dull gray corridors later, Imaga rapped a big, meaty paw of a hand against a matching dull gray door. Without waiting for a response, he lifted the latch and pushed the door smoothly and noiselessly inwards, holding it open for me to enter.   
  
I felt like I'd just been shown to the entrance of computer geek heaven. The only light in the room was coming from a multitude of flat-screen monitors stretching over every available square inch of eye-level wall space, along with a few scattered screens tacked into places that would require squatting or craning of necks to get a decent look. Tactical displays winked in rainbow hues, and columns of data marched in formation between the charts and diagrams.   
  
Tristan was contemplating one of the screens on the side wall, the predominant red and yellow of the display making her look both flushed and fluorescently jaundiced. The scar on her cheek actually cast a shadow. "Come in, Colonel O'Neill," she called out in a mellow, somewhat husky voice, her eyes still fixed on the map in front of her, flicking back and forth to take in every last detail.   
  
I entered the room and heard the soft snick of the door closing behind me. I was alone. In the dark. With a hell of an intimidating woman. One who very likely held Daniel's life in her hand. It was...somewhat disconcerting, I have to admit. But it was also the best shot I had at making something happen, and I wasn't about to piss it away.   
  
She turned her body toward me slowly, her eyes still fixed on the screen, but then her head whisked around and her full attention was on me. She gave me the same kind of quick, down-and-dirty visual once-over she had before. Made me feel like maybe I should be turning around so she could see the whole package. She didn't say anything, though. Just stood there, silently appraising, making me wonder just what the hell she was seeing in the near darkness that she hadn't seen in the broad light of day.   
  
Enough beating around the bush. "So, Tristan. I can call you Tristan, can't I?" She nodded, one side of her mouth quirking upwards. Or maybe it was both sides - only half of her face was now illuminated, the other half veiled in shadow. I could see enough, though, to piece together that she was enjoying having me on her turf, in her inner sanctum. That brought to mind another question. "Oh, just one thing before we get down to business. Why'd you want to talk to me? Why not just tell Kovacek whatever it is you're going to say?"   
  
She pressed her lips together, nullifying the smile, her eyebrows raising instead. "Because, O'Neill, I prefer to deal with men who have balls."   
  
Oh-ho. Well, well, well. I snorted and chewed on the inside of my lip. No doubt she had her own set of brass ones tucked down inside that armored crotch.   
  
Fine. I'd gotten my little dig in, she'd gotten hers. Time to take off the gloves and get down to some serious bare-knuckle boxing. "OK, let's cut the shit. We both know why we're here. Oh, and just to be clear on this point, his name's Daniel Jackson, _Doctor_ Daniel Jackson - _not_ the Butcher."   
  
"Colonel O'Neill," she said sharply, the trace of amusement fading. "Do not try my patience. I have very little of it to spare for the likes of you and your compatriots."   
  
"'Friends,'" I put in, irritated at her dismissive attitude - fuck her, fuck her, fuck her. "We call them 'friends' where I come from."   
  
"What you call anything is irrelevant to me, O'Neill. My concern is my people and our fight to put down the Feloren scourge. Your _Doctor_ Daniel Jackson only concerns me insofar as he is a hindrance to that goal."   
  
"Oh, well if he's such a 'hindrance,'" I shot back, "why don't you just hand him over to us and be done with it?"   
  
"Actually, now that you mention it - that is exactly what I intend to do."   
  
I blinked - several times. I couldn't believe she'd said what she'd just said. She had to be yanking my chain. It couldn't possibly be that easy. "Whoa, wait. You're just going to let him go?"   
  
"Yes." Blunt, matter-of-fact. The half of her face lit by the tactical display showed no sign she was anything but deadly serious. "I've managed to remind the relevant parties that there are more important matters to consider. Despite many of them much preferring to see Jackson flayed alive."   
  
The mess of bruises and ragged wounds decorating Daniel's body flashed in front of my eyes. "Not like your people didn't already try."   
  
She shook her head slightly, tucked her hands behind her back and took a few steps toward me, testing the limits of my personal space. I stood my ground. "On the contrary, O'Neill." She took one more step forward, leaving barely a foot of space between us. I could feel her breath on my face, as warm and soft and her words were cold and hard. "Your friend's wounds are the result of his own attempts to resist being subdued. I might remind you that no less than three Karievesh soldiers were mortally wounded in the struggle. He killed them - _with his bare hands_. Not to mention the more than one hundred others he butchered - yes, _butchered_ \- in the days leading up to his capture."   
  
I forced myself to remain calm, impassive, in control - drawing in slow, even breaths through my nose, trying to push aside the memory of Daniel's desperate plea for forgiveness. I knew I was balancing on an impossibly thin tightrope, one that might snap at the slightest misstep. No more sarcasm, no more belligerence - at least not outwardly directed.   
  
Apparently satisfied she'd cowed me sufficiently, she took one step backwards, relaxed her stance a fraction. "Under other circumstances, I certainly would not hesitate to proceed with all due haste to a verdict of guilty and give the order for your compatriot's execution. However, in this case, the situation is complicated by your relations with the Tok'Ra. Much as I would prefer to see the prisoner's throat slashed as quickly as due process would allow, I know this is much more likely to be a protracted and painstakingly meticulous trial. I do not have the time to devote to such nonsense.   
  
"However, under the Karievesh Code of Emergency Powers, the military commander presiding over the sector wherein a prisoner is captured is the only one authorized to pass judgment. I must deal with the problem, and as distasteful as it is to me, I am forced to admit that the most expedient means of resolving it is to release the prisoner into your custody. But–" she raised a pale finger, "there is a condition."   
  
Uh-oh. I so did not like the sound of that. I _knew_ she wasn't going to just hand him over. Nothing is ever that simple, especially not when war and death are involved.   
  
"In order that the accused not be allowed to hide from his crimes, so that you and the others in your delegation, as representatives of your people, will fully understand the atrocities he has committed, you will all - with Jackson present - be required to view the recorded evidence. The truth will not be buried along with the dead." Her voice was clipped, the pronouncement final. No use arguing, not that I was about to look even an ugly gift horse in the mouth. The strings attached to this piece of fortune were likely to rub and cut uncomfortably, but at least it meant we'd all get out of here alive.   
  
Tristan pivoted neatly on one heel back toward the display she had been studying when I came in. "Imaga will escort you back to the holding cell. The viewing will be held there as quickly as possible. The sooner this is ended, the better off we all shall be."   
  
Dismissed. End of discussion. As if on cue, the door swung open with a hint of a creak. Imaga held onto the latch while I edged around him into the corridor, then he closed the door with the swift and silent grace of a highly trained manservant - or a skilled assassin. There was an odd mix of both in him, and true to form for either role, he slipped past me and headed down the hallway without a single word of instruction. It was clear I was to follow him. No choice, really. The mighty Thellok Tristan had made her decree and had also made it abundantly clear arguing would be a big mistake. Huge mistake. Likely to result in, shall we say, a decided lack of pleasantries.   
  
So we'd do what she wanted, take what she'd offered. How bad could it be, after all? Watch a little home movie - probably a grainy, jumpy thing. Disjointed. That's what combat films are like, right? Not like I've watched a whole lot of them, either genuine or a filmmaker's interpretation. The last thing I want to do after being right in the thick of the real deal is to watch the instant replay, but the few times I've been subjected to something like that, as part of a debriefing or investigation, it's been quick and relatively painless. Like a brief and stinging flashback, all wrapped up in the kind of numbness you get when it's over and done and the adrenaline's starting to fade.   
  
I could handle it. Daniel could handle it. We all could handle it, goddammit, and then we'd pack up our gear and head back to the 'Gate. Take Daniel home. Try to sort the rest of the mess out later. The fallout. The tricky, potentially nasty stuff.   
  
As Imaga and I emerged from the admin building, I was expecting to get slapped in the face by cold wind and sleet, but the weather had done an abrupt about turn. It was calm, still and deceptively tranquil, the clouds thinned out enough to reveal ragged bits of star-filled sky. Gentle swirls of snow were drifting down to disappear into the mud. Entirely too quiet, too subdued - a hush that set my teeth on edge, raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Even the pack of mongrel guard dogs was absent, leaving me with just Imaga the Silent as escort. Frankly, I think I would've preferred the stink and growls of the wolf pack.   
  
We arrived at the prison entrance without seeing another soul, although the feeling of eyes on my back told me there were sentries hidden among the low, dark shapes of the buildings. The Corncob was nowhere to be seen, either. There was no one at all, in fact, anywhere between the entryway of the building and the cell where Daniel was being held. He was the only prisoner currently in residence as far as I could tell, but it still bothered me that there didn't seem to be even a token guard. Like whatever was going to happen there was not meant for the eyes of the outside world.   
  
Kovacek was already in the cell, leaning into the far corner, arms folded across his chest, one knee bent with his foot flat against the wall - trying to appear nonchalant but radiating annoyance and uncertainty even from a distance. Probably worried this was going to look bad on his record.   
  
Fraiser was sitting on the floor, knees tucked up with her arms wrapped around her legs, and just to the other side of her was Daniel. He was propped up against the wall, his legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, head tilted back against the wall and eyes closed. Shackled and chained again. Surprise, surprise. I felt a faint flicker of anger, but that's as far as it went. Inevitability was settling in. I just wanted to get this over and done with.   
  
Imaga let me in and reactivated the force field practically on my heels. I whirled to face him, intending to at least get a verbal shot off at him, but he was already gone. As I turned back, noting Fraiser had quickly and efficiently gotten the shackles off Daniel again, the lights in the cell dimmed and a bright light snapped on in the wall above Daniel's head - a projector of some sort. I could see motes of dust drifting through the beam as my eyes tracked around to find a crisp, clear image, large as life on the surface of the featureless gray wall opposite the projector. A split second later, the sound kicked in, rich and robust, faithfully reproducing the blasts of energy weapons, the cracking of bone and the sizzling of scorched flesh, the screams of terror and battle rage, the moans of the dying. Like being in a movie theater, only without the comfort of reclining seats. And the awful knowledge that what was being shown was not an innocuous little fantasy world.   
  
I'm not sure I can even begin to find the words to describe what was in that recording. Awful. Terrible. Painful. Raw. Gut-wrenching. Excruciating. Not that any of it was new to me. I'd seen more than enough blood and severed limbs and splattered brains in my years of covert ops, even during the time I'd spent at Stargate Command. I know what it looks like when a village is turned into a battlefield, and the bodies of children are intermingled with the bodies of soldiers. I know what it's like to be so pumped full of fear and primal fight-or-flight instincts that every sense is heightened. You can hear the screams of a child over its dead mother on the far side of the village as clearly as the beating of your own heart in your chest. The light's too bright, the heat is stifling, the smells are overwhelming, and your skin crawls at the feel of your own sweat and blood trickling down your face, back, legs, arms.   
  
Seen it all before - and worse. I wasn't even there for the real deal this time. Just got the two-dimensional flashback through the camera's eye. Fierce, vicious stabs of audio and video input, zoomed from a distance into undeniable close-ups. I got a long, clear look at a version of Daniel I never imagined would be possible outside of a seriously fractured and twisted alternate reality - some kind of nightmare monster with my friend's eyes and face and hands. But not his mind. Not his soul. His body might've been encased in that black battle armor. His hands might've been holding the weapons and pulling the trigger, firing repeatedly into already bloody mounds of pulped flesh. His fingers might've been holding that horrible thing like a clawed hammer, cracking and wrenching at the armor of his opponents, opening the way for the long, thin blade of a gore-smeared knife. His eyes might've been darting from one target to the next, fever bright and hungry like the eyes of a rabid dog.   
  
But it was - _not_ \- his soul.   
  
Even worse than having to watch, to witness, to be helpless to do anything to change what was already done, was seeing what it did to Daniel as the final bit of doubt was mercilessly bludgeoned to death. It had happened. It was true. Period. End of debate. A lesser man might've turned away, tried to hide from the unspeakable reality of what we were seeing. Not Daniel. He faced it head-on, looked it straight in the eye, forced himself to watch every last sickening minute, even though his body was fighting against his will, shaking and shivering and twitching, his breath coming fast and short, his eyes wide open, blinking rapidly. He let the shock and revulsion and loathing tear through him, shredding him soul-deep.   
  
It went on - and on - and on - well over an hour, one haunting, hideous image after another. At some point, Fraiser got up and came over to me, hissed at me that it had to stop, that Daniel couldn't take any more, that he was going to snap if this went on any longer. I had the same fear. God. I was the one who’d agreed to this, thinking it wouldn't be any big deal, convincing myself it was the quickest and easiest way to get Daniel out of there.   
  
I tried standing by the doorway and yelling to see if I could get someone's attention. I got Imaga, looking down his crooked nose at me. When I told him we got the point already and they could shut it down, he actually _spoke_ to me. One word, one syllable. He said, "No." Final. End of discussion. Like it ever was a discussion to begin with. Then he turned and left again, completely ignoring Fraiser as she indignantly demanded that he come back and listen to her. All that little exercise in futility did was to leave us both impotently fuming.   
  
Fraiser turned her anger to action almost immediately and tried to sedate Daniel again. Didn't ask me or even look to me for a nod, not that I blame her. I think - no, I _know_ \- she was furious with me, holding me responsible for what Daniel was being put through. For what she herself was having to endure, both in what she was seeing in the recording and in not being able to do something to stop it, to spare Daniel.   
  
Daniel didn't want to be spared, though. He flinched away from her every time she tried to touch him, yanked his arm away from her when she tried to push his sleeve up, turned toward her when she tried again. Just long enough to say, "No" - with the same unswerving determination as Imaga. Fraiser gave up and slumped back in frustration. She wouldn’t go against his wishes, not when they were so clearly expressed.  
  
No. That was a good word. A great word. Screaming it at the top of my lungs might've come close to summing up how I felt. But I didn't say anything. Didn't yell anything. Didn't do anything but stay rooted to the spot, rigid and tense, the cool air of the cell creeping under my jacket, under my shirt, over and under my skin.   
  
Kovacek hadn't moved in the slightest, his eyes straight ahead, fixed on the darkness in the corner to the side of the projection. With the air of a man who's intentionally ignoring something he feels has nothing to do with him. Slimy bastard.   
  
And I just stood there. Feeling like I was in the same league.   
  
After it was over, when the last image flickered away and the cell was briefly plunged into soundless darkness before the lights came up again, I went over to Daniel, sat down beside him. Made myself look at the devastation in his eyes, the grim set of his mouth. Tried to get him to look back at me, hopefully to find some kind of anchor. But he refused, resisting my hand as I wrapped it around his chin and tried to force him. He was stone-cold quiet, shivering, eyes fixed on a blank and empty wall, as if the images had burned themselves into his retinas. He was still seeing it all, over and over again. I know, because I was seeing it too, and I felt exactly like he looked.   
  
I didn't get the chance to think of anything else to do or say, not that I believed actions or words would've made a difference. Things started moving too damn fast at that point for me to do more than hold on and ride it out. The Karievesh seemed to want nothing more than to get Daniel out of there as fast as inhumanly possible. Shoo that nasty, messy little problem away, out the door, back through the Stargate.   
  
Imaga returned within minutes of the end of the peep show from hell, and to my complete and utter astonishment, calmly laid his hand against the palm reader - without insisting Daniel be chained up again. Mind you, he didn't do it without reservation. His eyes were sharp and all-encompassing, and his body was taut with the potential for immediate action, even if he did try adopt the air of a man doing nothing more serious than picking dirt from under his fingernails. Not good enough to fool me, even distracted as I was by helping Fraiser get Daniel to his feet. We were going while the gettin' was...well, if not _good,_ than at least _there_.   
  
Kovacek moved to help with Daniel, but Fraiser gave him her very best _back off, buster_ glower. Hey, it's been known to work on Teal'c. Why not on Kovacek? And it did work. Perfectly. He muttered something about taking point and went to hurry out of the cell ahead of us. Yeah, right. Like this was anything even remotely approximating a military maneuver. I think he was just worried if he lagged behind, Imaga might get impatient and reactivate the force field before we were all out. Fraiser, though, bless her determined spit and fire, wasn't about to let him get off that easy and barked at him to take her medical bag.   
  
I might've actually laughed - the sight of a major hopping to the order of a captain is not something you get to see every day, after all - if it weren't for the weight of Daniel's body hanging between Fraiser and me. Almost a deadweight, even though he was trying to shuffle his feet in some semblance of walking, his head turned down like he had to be able to see his feet to will them to move.   
  
Back through the oppressive corridors of the cellblock we went, but didn't get the satisfaction of seeing any light at the end of the tunnel. It was pitch black outside, cold and crisp, still and silent, but the wide open sky, spangled with the shimmer of stars, was a welcome relief after the stifling monotony of the cellblock. OK, so maybe there was a little bit of light, even if it was far away and wholly devoid of warmth.   
  
Imaga handed us off with a brusque salute to none other than my good buddy Hock-spit, looking every bit as hock-spit-and-polished as he had during our first encounter. He had one of those dandy little cyber Rolls Royce tanks waiting for us, and we all piled in, Daniel managing to whack his head against the top of the doorway in the process.   
  
He didn't react to the impact beyond blinking a couple of times, and once we had him settled on one of the seats inside the car, he tilted his head back, picked out a spot on the ceiling and stared some more - only this time with an expression thoroughly lacking in emotion, except maybe for weariness, if you consider that to be an emotion. He slumped down in the seat, his hands dangling loosely between his thighs. Probably would've slid right off into a heap on the floor if it hadn't been for Fraiser and me pinning him in from either side. One of his feet was flat on the floor, toes angled inward, and the other foot was twisted to the side, the sole of his boot facing the other foot.   
  
Wait a minute. Where had he gotten boots? Must've been Fraiser, while I was off losing a pissing match in the dark with Thellok Tristan. I hadn't even thought to look at Daniel's feet before we toted him out of the cellblock, but Fraiser had it covered - literally. I could even see the edge of dark socks peeking out the top of the boots. One more small, human comfort. Not much in the overall scheme of things, but it was something. If pebbles could make an avalanche, maybe slight but gentle kindnesses could heal a wound, help to knit the raw and bloody edges back together.   
  
The ride back to the Stargate passed in uncomfortable silence. Even Kovacek and Hock-spit refrained from speaking to one another, instead passing the time in an intermittent staring contest, their steely glaring at one another occasionally interrupted by skittering glances around the interior of the car.   
  
For the most part, I kept my eyes on Daniel's hands, watching them twitch, clench, release and go limp by turns. I occasionally looked up at his face, but gave up hoping to see any change after the first few attempts. I glanced at Fraiser once, too, but she just shook her head at me - the one in her repertoire of headshakes that means _not now._ In this context, _let's just get him home_.  



	5. Errand of Mayhem

That was the best we could do - scoop and run like hell, and hope the shock didn't finish Daniel off where a tidal wave of horrors and abuses had failed. Anyone with an ounce of humanity would've been seriously rattled by seeing what was in that recording, forget about it being your own however unwilling crimes you were witnessing. Daniel had to be absolutely numb, sandblasted and ice-lashed right down to the core. But he'd make it. He'd be OK. Eventually. Even if I had to kick his ass inch by stinkin' inch along the way.   
  
But the planet Torrhena wasn't quite finished raking her claws through Daniel just yet. We got back to the 'Gate, hauled ourselves out of the car into the half-frozen glop surrounding the scorched stone of the platform, and Fraiser and I waited semi-patiently with Daniel slung between us while Kovacek scraped at the ice-crusted DHD. He cursed a lot while he worked with his knife and flashlight, but I tuned him out. Like he had any right to be angry with anyone or anything. So Mother Nature was shitting on us too. Big, hairy, honkin' deal.   
  
The 'Gate finally gushed into life, but before I could even begin to feel relief that we were a mere handful of steps away from home, Daniel's weight slipped off my shoulder, his hand breaking out of my grasp with a firm twist - and the cold, hard barrel of some kind of gun or blaster was pressed against my temple. My first thought was that Daniel had taken that final plunge off the deep end, had somehow gotten his hands on a weapon and was a trigger-pull away from blasting my head across the frozen ground. I had the incredibly bizarre urge to simultaneously laugh, yell and piss my pants.   
  
A voice off to my side, toward Fraiser, set me straight right quick. In those snotty, abrupt, arrogant tones I remembered oh so well from the ride to Thellok Tristan's little corner of this cesspool planet, Hock-spit said, "I would not suggest moving, Doctor Fraiser. I truly have no desire to assist your brains in vacating your pretty head, but I will not hesitate if you insist. And I will succeed. Between myself and Tor-thellok Imaga, we have you and your commander quite thoroughly covered."   
  
Imaga? Shit! How in the name of blasted fury did he get here? So that's who had me on the business end of his gun. And Hock-spit had Fraiser in a similarly compromising position. Double shit.   
  
So where the hell was Daniel? Passed out on the ground behind us? Please? Pretty please? Whoever might be listening?   
  
I hadn't heard a thud. Wouldn't have expected any noise apart from that, considering the way Daniel had whacked his head on the door of the transport and barely batted an eyelash. The ground might've been crunchy from the cold, but it was still softer than metal. Even so, there should've been a thud.   
  
No goddamn thud. Make that triple shit.   
  
And Kovacek just stood there by the DHD, knife clenched in his fist, indecision having a field day all over his face. So what did he think he was doing anyway? Taking the opportunity to decide how well his thumb fit up his ass?   
  
I turned my head the slightest bit to the side, hoping Imaga didn't put his stock in hair triggers. The pressure against my temple disappeared, but quickly reestablished itself at the back of my head, at the base of my skull, as I was swiftly whirled around by an insistent and very strong hand. Just in time to see a blur of movement meeting the tree line and being swallowed whole by the darkness. No Daniel anywhere in the immediate vicinity. So that meant the blur...had to be Daniel.   
  
"What the _fuck_!" I think I actually spit as I said it. Too bad I wasn't turned to face Imaga. "No. This is _not_ happening. I'm not _letting_ it happen, so I think you'd better holster those weapons right now because I'm going after my teammate whether you like it or not."   
  
"I don't think you really have a choice in the matter, Colonel," Hock-spit said nonchalantly. "Not unless you fancy watching me shoot your friend here. I have my orders, and I intend to follow them. That means you stay here while the Butcher takes care of his very important piece of business." He cranked up the energy level on his weapon to emphasize the point, the high-pitched whine doing a shivery little number on my nerves. Time to back off, slow down, even though my guts were telling me to go, go, _go_. If that slimy asshole so much as singed a hair on Fraiser's head...   
  
I took a deep breath, raised my hands in what I hoped was a non-threatening manner. "OK, would someone care to explain to me what in the _hell_ is going on here?" I refused to twitch as Imaga dug the end of his gun further into my neck. "You wanna tell me how letting the guy you were so intent on stringing up go haring off across your planet is a good thing for you stupid fucks?”

"Now, now, Colonel," Hock-spit said soothingly. "No need for such language. This really doesn't have to be unpleasant for you at all, if you would simply cooperate. Now then. Major Kovacek, you will be returning to your planet to inform your commanding officer that if he wishes to prevent the untimely demise of your people remaining here on Torrhena, he will make no attempts to send anyone here to retrieve them. You will wait - patiently - until such time as we have concluded our business here. The doctor and the colonel - and maybe your errant compatriot Jackson if his luck holds - will then be returned to you...as unscathed as we can manage."   
  
"Colonel..." Kovacek's voice carried every bit of the uncertainty I'd seen on his face. Simpering little pissant. Tristan was right. He was in serious need of a testicular transplant.   
  
"Go, Kovacek," I said firmly, but he didn't seem to want to take the hint. He actually “but sir-ed” me. Wrong time for that, idiot. Objections should've come _before_ Fraiser and I had ended up with our heads just shy of being spitted on the ends of gun barrels. "That's an order, Major. Go now." And good riddance. At least that one was less life for me to worry about, miserable as it was.   
  
There was a long pause peppered with the crunch of boots on ice, following by a faint, sucking splash and the whoosh of the 'Gate disengaging. Good. So he'd actually managed to make enough connections in that twisted little rat brain to allow him to realize he was being let off the hook. Having his own ass handed to him on a silver platter and being told to amscray. Given the opportunity to lick boots another day.   
  
"There now," Hock-spit said, sighing lightly. "That was simple enough, wasn't it? Now, if both of you would kindly step back into the vehicle so we can return to the base..."   
  
I might've been OK if he'd just grunted a straightforward "get into the car." But no. He had to go and be so damn full of himself and fakey-polite. That was it. Enough. End of the line, end of my patience. One straw too many. I swung around and connected a good, solid punch with Imaga's nose, just because he was closest. Hit him right between the eyes. I had maybe two seconds to feel pleased with myself before I got knocked clean off my feet by the kick of some serious wattage. Everything went blindingly white, then flashed over to senseless, pure and perfect darkness.   
  
My wake-up call was the jab of another gun, courtesy of Hock-spit. Rifle this time, one of those machine gun/staff weapon things. Not particularly steady, though, but close enough to do the job. We were moving. Must be back in the tank-transport whatever-the-fuck it was. My little bit of involuntary night-night time had done squat for improving my temper _or_ my patience. I yanked the weapon out of his hand, flipped it around and pointed it in what I hoped was his general direction before my eyes were even completely open and focused.   
  
Thinking I had Hock-spit covered, I sat up slowly as my eyes flashed around in search of Imaga. No Imaga. Where the fuck had he disappeared to?   
  
A throat being cleared brought my attention fully back to Hock-spit. Despite being an uppity asshole, it turned out he was no dummy. He had a handgun pressed against Fraiser's temple. She was sitting next to him, anything but docile if glares were the measure. He gave me a brief, annoyingly superior smile and held his empty hand out to me, fingers flicking in a gesture that made his point perfectly clear. Give the rifle back or get splattered with a faceful of the flying remains of your friend's head. Wouldn't be the first time that had happened to me, but I was in absolutely no hurry to repeat the experience. The gun went back to Hock-spit.   
  
"A wise choice, Colonel," he said smoothly, tucking the butt of the relinquished gun under his arm and pointing the business end back at me, all while keeping the other weapon trained on Fraiser. Oh boy, was she ever pissed. Not at me this time, though. At being put in the position of damsel in distress. One thing Fraiser definitely isn't, and that's a damsel. All woman, through and through, that's for sure, but not a single fluttering eyelash or high-pitched scream in the mix.   
  
My turn to shake my head at her. My version of the nonverbal _not now._ There was even less purpose in causing a ruckus at that point than there was when we knew where Daniel was. She narrowed her eyes at me briefly, then sighed quickly, almost imperceptibly, knowing it was stupid and letting it go. Wish I could manage that kind of discretion more often myself.   
  
I refused to get up off the floor of the vehicle, just on general principle. I didn’t want to be comfortable, and I certainly didn’t want to sit next to that bastard, or even across from him.

There were a few more minutes of a mixed bag of glares – my slitted eyes traded for his heavy-lidded nonchalance - and the transport gave a shudder and jerk and pulled to a stop. "Ah, we've arrived." Hock-spit gave me another one of his oily smiles and lightly brushed at the panel next to him, causing the door to slide open and the cold wind to rush in. "After you, Colonel."   
  
Man, oh man, was this guy ever getting on my nerves. Rude I could handle. His brand of supercilious polite was grating me up one side and down the other. Cocktail party politeness. If I'd been at one of those good-for-nothing shindigs, I would've blown him off in a big way, gone to hunt for cocktail weenies on the other side of the room. But there was entirely too much at stake here. Much more than whether some three-star was satisfied enough with the quality of the kowtowing to put his stamp of approval on the promotion of a lowly colonel. This was life and death. Plain and simple. Achieve the mission, get your team out alive. This time, they were one and the same.

I managed to get up off the floor and exit the vehicle in more or less one smooth motion, stubbornly ignoring the way my knee was protesting - the weather hadn’t done it any favors - because I was _not_ going to give Hock-spit the satisfaction of showing any sign of weakness. I refused to even wrap my arms across my chest or shove my hands into my pockets because _damn_ it was cold. Or at least it seemed that way to me. Not sure if it was really that cold or if I just felt that way deep down inside.  
  
The beer-soaked, onion-chomping Harley brigade was back, waiting at a slight distance outside the car to escort us to the admin building. Hock-spit handed off his rifle to one of them and marched out ahead of the pack, upwind as it happened, while Fraiser and I were forced into close quarters with some steamy, smelly hunks of burly body. Close enough that I finally realized there were some women mixed in with the men. Yeah. The epitome of equality - the women every bit as ugly, swarthy and bad-mannered as the men.   
  
Bitches and curs alike peeled off as we reached the door of the building, and Fraiser and I were herded by Hock-spit - who repositioned himself behind us with his handgun pointed at our backs - through the warren of corridors back to Tristan's den. I drew up close to Fraiser's elbow as we went, said as low as I could, "So fill me in."   
  
"After Imaga stunned you and hauled you back into the ground car, he went after Daniel. In the same direction, at least. He didn't seem to be hurrying to catch up." She shrugged, sighed, let her shoulders slump just a tad from the drill formation posture she'd been maintaining.   
  
"Oh." That nauseating, gut-full-of-rocks feeling was back with a vengeance. This was not good. This had been planned. Maybe right from the start. They'd let him go on purpose - to take care of some kind of "business," as Hock-spit had put it. Nasty business no doubt. And more than likely, Imaga was meant to play janitor and clear away any resultant mess - which could very well include Daniel himself. What kind of sick game did these people think they were playing at anyway?   
  
Time to get some answers. Straight up. Unadulterated. Uncensored and uncut. Just like that goddamn fucking film Tristan had made us - made _Daniel_ \- watch, made us gag down like the rankest pile of steaming offal you can possibly imagine.   
  
As soon as I caught sight of the door to her hidey hole - so smooth and pristine gray - I lengthened my stride and blew through the doorway without the slightest pause. The door clanked satisfyingly against the wall, but then deja vu hauled me up short. I swear up and down she'd been staring at that same display the entire time since I'd last been in there. The only difference was the frown on her face had deepened into a borderline scowl. Probably due to the fact there was a larger number of red X's on the map than there had been before. Red X's are never a good thing. Seems to be one of those universal constants like pine trees. Oh, and the lines were now mostly green instead of yellow, but I'll be fucked if I had the foggiest what that meant. Couldn't give a shit, either. That detail just happened to stick in my head because it made me think of some kind of freakish Christmas light display.   
  
What I really, really wanted to do at that moment was march right over to her, wrap my hands around her throat - if I could manage to get my hands all the way around that fit-for-a-linebacker neck - and throttle some answers out of her. Common sense told me that would be a bad idea. But the thing about O'Neill common sense is even though it's great at keeping me from _doing_ stupid things, it doesn't seem to have any say-so whatsoever when it comes to my mouth. "What's the matter, Tristan? Having a bad war day?"   
  
She turned her head very slowly toward me, spared me maybe half a second's worth of glance before her eyes slid smoothly over my shoulder. I think Fraiser got a full second of consideration before Tristan momentarily dismissed both of us from her attention as she addressed Hock-spit. "Has the operation been launched according to plan?"   
  
"Yes, Thellok," he answered - with none of the arrogance or superior bullshit he'd made a habit of using on me. Hell, I think there was actually a trace of respect in there.   
  
"Excellent. I expect to be kept fully apprised of the situation and to be notified immediately as soon as Imaga returns. You may leave now."   
  
Imaga. Not Imaga _and_ Jackson. Not Imaga _or_ Jackson. Just Imaga. Chuck a few more rocks down my gullet.   
  
Hock-spit snapped his heels together and inclined his head toward her, his hand fisted and arm angled across his chest. Their version of a salute I guess, although it was the first time I'd seen it. I was half expecting his arm to pop out afterwards, hand held high and palm flat. Didn't happen. Good thing too. I think I would've had a hard time resisting the urge to laugh my ass off at the absurdity of it all.   
  
Tristan didn't return the salute. OK, so maybe I'd have to admit the woman was at least a good judge of character.   
  
As soon as the door snicked shut, she returned her attention to her computer-generated approximations of death and destruction. I opened my mouth to demand some explanations, but her hand snapped up to silence me. And it worked, mainly because I was caught completely off guard by the fact that two of her fingers were missing. Whoa. She'd done the raised index finger number on me before, but I'd assumed the rest of her fingers were curled up under her thumb. OK, between that and the scar on her face, maybe I'd also have to admit she was seeing more than green lines and red X's when she looked at that screen.   
  
"You have many questions, no doubt," she said evenly, "and you may ask them in due time. But first, you will listen."   
  
OK, boys and girls, settle down for story time. I suppose this one even could've started with "once upon a time." But it definitely wasn't a "happily ever after." Life and fairytales. Not much in common there.   
  
"There is a man. A scientist." Tristan paused, reconsidered, her eyes stilling momentarily in their back and forth flight across the shifting and blinking of the battlefield. "No, more like an inhuman abomination. An abhorrent creature, not worthy to be called a scientist. His name is Adren Volish." She half-gagged on the name, but managed to force it out with rough-edged clarity. Nice introduction. Really made me want to meet the guy.   
  
"He was born Karievesh. A brilliant mind, a massive intellect, with a talent for delving into the most obscure reaches of the mind, for unfolding the convolutions of human consciousness. For marrying microtechnology to the cellular, the subcellular. In ways no one had ever conceived of before. He had great promise, the potential to aid us through this dark period in our history. But he went astray, went too far, even beyond the bounds of morality already stretched thin by years of war.   
  
"His research was condemned. He was banned from the scientific community, shunned even by the vast majority of the military leadership, myself included. We thought it was punishment enough, that it would stop him. We were wrong. We should have killed him when we had the chance.   
  
"He went underground, seeking out the resources to continue his work, and managed to find a handful of willing accomplices. We rooted them out, as best we could. We imprisoned them, executed the worst offenders, conscripted the others into military service where they could see firsthand exactly what it was they were hoping to bring to pass with their clean and pure 'research.' Let them soak their hands in the gore and blood that had been absent from their laboratories. Most were...changed by the experience. A difficult lesson, to be sure, a painful cauterization. But they lived. A few of them have even come to be fine officers. Tor-thellok Imaga, for instance."   
  
Talk about standing perceptions on their head. Imaga, a scientist? I lost track of what Tristan was saying for a moment, something about how she'd hand-picked and mentored Imaga.   
  
"But Volish himself eluded us. Always one step ahead, avoiding capture, gradually receiving more and more sympathy from all levels of military and government as he came to be seen as a persecuted would-be savior. The war was going very badly for us at that time. There were those who were willing to do almost anything to turn the tide. But there were also those who stood firm and fast within their moral boundaries. Enough to prevent Volish from being welcomed back with open arms.   
  
"Then almost two years ago, he disappeared. No hint of him or any activities related to his research for almost a year. We thought - many of us hoped and prayed - he had been killed in a skirmish, a sniper attack, an air raid. One more civilian added to the long lists of the dead, if any of us can even be called civilians any more. There is no part of this land untouched, no town or village that has not been a battlefield." She paused for a moment, her partial hand skimming just over the surface of the map in front of her.   
  
"The vast majority of the Karievesh people believe Adren Volish is dead. There are few who know the truth, what I am about to tell you. This information has been classified to the highest degree, and it will remain so for as long as necessary. You will not repeat it outside of this room if you wish to retain any hope of leaving this planet alive. I will not tolerate anyone, least of all you, causing a panic. Our people are weary and worn enough as it is. It would take very little to push them over the edge. This knowledge would likely be more than enough." She turned and fixed Fraiser and me with a stern glare, assessing, judging, apparently deeming we could be trusted. Or easily silenced, quickly and efficiently disposed of. More likely the latter.   
  
"The truth is that we were not so fortunate as to be so easily rid of Adren Volish. He came back to haunt us, to condemn us for our earlier indecision in deciding his fate. He returned to us in the guise of Feloren soldiers, the handful of inhuman savages we call the Butchers.”

I had to swallow hard against the bile rising in the back of my throat at that last word. What they’d been calling Daniel. She was about to tell us what had happened to him, and I was equally sure I didn’t want to hear it, but definitely had to hear it.

"You see,” Tristan continued, her voice tense but ridiculously calm and composed, or so it seemed to me, “the crux of Volish's research was a truly abhorrent - and terrifying - thing. He discovered a means by which he could circumvent the highest centers of the brain, everything that makes us truly human. A way to turn a man into a machine. A killing machine. One deprived of conscience, of civilized thought or reason. Able to stab and slash and rip to shreds the bodies of his enemies. As if they were just that - bodies without souls. A soldier who can single-handedly decimate entire squadrons, severing limbs and breaking bodies open, then crunching the bones under his feet. Without fear, without horror, without feeling, without even conscious thought or awareness. Without knowing the pain of the wounds others might inflict upon him, without registering the effects of fatigue. Nearly unstoppable outside of catastrophic damage to the body.”

So Fraiser and I had our answer, the explanation for everything we’d seen in that damn video. Didn’t make it any easier to swallow. I was feeling well and truly nauseated at that point, torn between doing something violent - I wasn’t sure what - and continuing to listen because we still didn’t know where Daniel had gone or why. I opted for listening, at least for the moment.  
  
"They began to appear a year ago,” Tristan said, apparently unconcerned about what effect her words were having on Fraiser and me. She certainly didn’t seem to be interested in pausing long enough to even flick a glance at us. “Only one at first, dismissed as a psychopath driven to unholy extremes by the stresses and pressures of the war all around him. But then more began to appear. Men, women, even a few who were barely more than children. We were forced to face the fact that we were facing a new weapon, more terrible than any ever held in human hands.   
  
"Our scientists studied the corpses of the Butchers and found the signs of Volish's work. We could not deny he was responsible. There was no one else - not even the accomplices who were executed - no one able to approach that level of manipulation and control.   
  
"There were implants imbedded in the brainstems of the Butchers, connected to a tangle of microscopic fibers weaving throughout the lower portions of the brain. Severing the higher mind from the body - taking control of limbs and movement, making them the servants of a machine mind. A mind so completely driven by destructive purpose that nothing short of death will stop it. So determined to fight and maim and kill for as long as there is breath in the body that we have never been able to capture a Butcher alive before now. Not before Daniel Jackson. I am not certain why he was any different from the others."

She paused then, blinking quickly against the glare of neon green and red. I wanted to tell her that was because the Space Monkey regularly defied expectations, but she’d already staring talking again, dismissing the issue. "It does not matter. All I know is that his life was a gift to me. This is why I have done as I have. Applied what our scientists have learned of the Butchers, had them create a program composed of subliminal light and sound pulses, which was then imbedded in the recording you were shown. A program to send Jackson back into Feloren territory to find Adren Volish and do what should have been done long ago. Our own operatives have been unsuccessful thus far, but Jackson knows where Volish is hiding. He has been in the hands of the Father of Butchers. And so he goes to commit a kind of patricide. A justified slaying. As just as any killing ever could be.”

Another pause. I had to take a deep, slow breath to keep from giving in to that violent tendency. It wouldn’t do anything to help Daniel and wouldn’t make me feel any better, not really. In the momentary quiet, I finally noticed Fraiser’s breathing had gone quick and slightly ragged, and when I glanced at her, there was definitely a glimmer of wetness in her eyes, but she was holding it together. I didn’t expect any less of her.  
  
I figured Tristan was done at that point, but she had a bit more to add, as if either I or Fraiser needed any more. I gritted my teeth, though, and listened. I had to. For Daniel.

"I am not certain he will succeed, or even that he will attempt to do what we hope we have been successful in programming him to do. There are no guarantees, even now when the plan is set in motion. There is only the waiting to be done now. Waiting and praying.   
  
"So there is my story, Colonel, Captain,” she said as she finally turned towards us. She seemed somehow weary, but I’m not sure where I got that impression. “My confession, if you will, although I do not expect forgiveness, least of all from you. I have no regrets for what I have done. Believe what you will about me, but know that I will do whatever is necessary to end this war. I do not care which side is deemed the victor, either now or in the passage of time. I only want the bloodshed to end.   
  
"To that purpose, the man who is a friend to you is a tool to me. I do not offer you apologies for that. I do not expect understanding. I have given you what I can - the truth. Whether your friend is returned to you is out of my hands now."   
  
There was silence then, in the room and in my head. I didn't know what to think, say, feel. I suppose I was in shock, combined with a half-hearted attempt at denial. The way Daniel had been used, not just by Volish but by Tristan as well, a pawn for both sides... Christ.   
  
But at the same time, the military part of me recognized the passion in Tristan's words, her resolve and conviction, a belief in the rightness of her cause and an unswerving devotion to her people, to her nation. I couldn't help but respect that, and wonder in a painfully dark and cramped part of myself if I wouldn't have done the same in her place. If the person in question had been a stranger? Probably, given the right set of circumstances. If it had been a friend...maybe even then.   
  
Tristan turned back to her tactical display, tucked her hands behind her back, spoke crisply and with the sense of putting something behind her, moving on. "So. You have listened. Now you may question."   
  
What I really wanted to do was go and drown myself in a bottle of scotch and pretend none of this had ever happened. Try to make it all undo itself by force of will, reject that any of this was real or had anything at all to do with Daniel. Fraiser, though, immediately kicked in with her damnable, indispensable practicality. "What happens to Daniel after he...achieves his objective?" Her voice was steady, despite the pause, with none of the roughness I had expected. The tears were gone from her eyes as well, not a single one fallen. She’d had her moment, reined it in, and was back to business now.

"He will return here,” Tristan replied. “If he is able."   
  
Maybe I should've gone for something more direct than wishing for booze and Never Never Land. Something like sticking my fingers in my ears and humming loudly. At least for the second part of Tristan's answer. But I heard every word of what she said, and it punted me so far beyond anger that I ricocheted clear around the other end of the spectrum to inevitability, concession and an achingly painful calmness. Just like that. Emotional whiplash.   
  
Fraiser continued to prod at the sensible and hopefully viable with measured and reasonable questions. Doctor mode, kicking in. I let her take the lead. "Do you have the means to remove the implant?"   
  
Tristan frowned for a moment, then turned back to Fraiser and looked at her with what I can only describe as confusion. "The chips are implanted near the surface, at the back of the neck." Where Daniel said he'd been given an injection, for the pain. Damn. Sneaky little fucks. He never knew what hit him. "Its removal is a simple procedure. I've witnessed it myself, numerous times during the autopsies."   
  
Autopsies. Great. Dead carcasses. Which was how every person other than Daniel who'd been implanted with one of those goddamned chips had ended up. Fraiser was probably thinking somewhere along the same lines because she was quiet for a long moment, lips pressed together. She finally took a sharp breath through her nose, crossed her arms resolutely across her chest. "I'd like to consult with your experts, learn everything they know." Her tone said it wasn't a request, but the words themselves allowed Tristan to take it as such. That's a skill I've only ever half mastered. Just can't seem to keep from adding that last little sarcastic touch.   
  
Tristan didn't answer right away, gave the appearance of considering the request. Nifty little game. Annoying as all getout, though. "Doctor Kadina is here in the camp at the moment. She had been expecting to perform another autopsy."   
  
"Well, that's just too bad for her," I couldn't help putting in. And then, once started, I couldn't stop myself from letting it rip. "And by the way, here's a question for you. Would you care to tell me why the _fuck_ you felt it was necessary to put Daniel through watching that godawful recording? He didn't remember most of it, but I'm sure he's got some lovely nightmare fodder now. Couldn't you have figured another way of getting that program inside his head?"   
  
I thought I detected a slight flinch jerking across Tristan's face, but it could've just been the shifting of the tactical display. More red X's. "Secrecy was required. He was being monitored at all times. I had to find a way to implement the programming without arousing the suspicion of those...with different goals."   
  
"Meaning?" I snapped impatiently.   
  
Her voice took on a brisk clip as she said, "Meaning those who would rather have Volish under their own control for their own purposes. Those who would stoop to any level to drive the Feloren into submission. I could not allow that. There is no viable solution apart from Volish's immediate death. He must be put beyond anyone's reach but God's."   
  
I opened my mouth to give her what-for right back, but then shut it again. I had to admit I understood, even agreed with the gist of what she was saying. Except for the God part. I had a feeling if Volish really was as advertised, he'd be paying a visit to someone else entirely. I didn't have any qualms about his impending assumption of room temperature at all. But it pissed me off royally to think of Daniel's part in it all, from what he had already gone through to what he must be enduring even as Tristan dumped her version of the truth into our laps.   
  
Tristan asked with obviously forced politeness if we had any further questions. Oh, yeah. Plenty. Like why? Why Daniel? But she wouldn't have the answer to that. No one would, except maybe for Adren Volish, and I didn't think I particularly wanted to know why he singled Daniel out. Because he came through the Stargate and Volish thought it'd be good for some additional kicks to toss an offworlder into the mix? Because Daniel simply didn't look like the bloodthirsty, cold-blooded killer type, and Volish wanted to give his invention a real workout? I might've been amused that he was going to get bit in the ass by his own invention - if it weren't for who had been sent to do the biting, and obviously more than that. It made me want to finally give in to the urge to vomit - right then and there so Tristan would have to put up with the stink of what she'd done.   
  
I didn't do anything, though, didn't say another word. No more questions. She didn't have any more answers to give. Not any that I gave a shit about. I turned and let myself out, Fraiser right on my heels. Tristan could have her shifting green borders and her massing red X's all to herself. Nightmare before Christmas in whatever the fuck month it was on Torrhena.   



	6. Killing Time

Hock-spit tailed us back through the building and out into the bitter slap of frozen wind. It actually felt good to get out of there, even if it was cold enough for Satan himself to be wearing ice skates.   
  
Fraiser was hustled off in Hock-spit's wake, tucked in among part of the pack of ever-present, smelly hulks of guard. Off to pick Dr. Kadina's brain in preparation to...well...pick Daniel's brain. I ended up standing out in the slosh of semi-solid mud - carefully upwind of the other half of the mongrel hoard - and watched the sun rise, burning over low, shadowed hills and melting its way slowly upwards through a gray sky.   
  
I watched three more sunrises on Torrhena, and an equal number of sunsets, each one a variation on the theme of red and gray and blackish purple. Some mauve thrown in one time. Saw the rising of an odd little chain of several barren moons late one night. The rest of the time the sky was blanketed in layers of cloud and snow or freezing rain. Funny how the sky always cleared just enough at dusk and dawn to see the sun.   
  
I paced the days away across ground that went from frozen, to slushy, to soupy and back again, sometimes huddled down into my coat, my wool cap pulled over my ears against the blowing sleet, sometimes looking up at the swirling gray sky sans hat and sans jacket, with the wind raking through my hair and sneaking down my shirt collar. I ate a couple of times - don't really remember what it was, apart from tasting like onions - sucked down the odd cup of ice-cold brackish water with the slight scent and taste of fermenting hops, slept a little when Fraiser broke away from her medical conference and insisted I do so.   
  
They gave us the use of a small room in one of the buildings - not the admin building or the cellblock, thank God. The accommodations were spartan, but serviceable, with creaky cots and rough gray blankets.   
  
We even got a visit to the bomb shelter - gray and nondescript, of course - one night during an air raid. The fighters sounded like a cross between a death glider and a helicopter, the explosions were muffled but respectable, and the craters in the mud and a couple of the buildings were suitably impressive. We also spent a couple hours getting friendly with the floor under our cots while some snipers got picked off out of the hills. And then there was the daily brisk march of fresh troops out of the base and the constant straggling trickle of last week's or last month's returning leftovers. All in all, your standard issue military conflict.   
  
The Tok'Ra missed most of the fun. They left the day after Daniel disappeared back behind the front lines, but Marty stayed for a while. I didn't bother asking him if the Tok'Ra had gotten all the cool new toys they wanted. Quite frankly, I didn't give a flying fuck.   
  
Marty made himself scarce initially. Left me to my pacing, interspersed with intermittent attempts to surreptitiously pace right out of the camp. Raised the hounds every single time and ended up with me as their wayward sheep all the way back to the center of the complex. It seemed we had no choice but to wait.   
  
Every so often, Marty would reappear, usually when I was standing still long enough to rest for a few minutes and consult with my knee on the approach of the next storm. His timing was so exact I could swear he was keeping a constant eye on me, but I never felt like I was being watched - not by him, at least - and I never caught him hovering.   
  
He'd say hello and stand with me without forcing any chit-chat, then he'd go away again when I went back to pacing. I appreciated the thought, but it started to get on my nerves eventually. I wasn't getting anywhere by pacing, either, except deeper into the mud. So I dug out my deck of cards - still in my jacket from that last mission to the lizards and bromeliads planet - and taught Marty how to play gin.   
  
Actually not the best choice in the world since it reminded me of Daniel, but Marty got to beating the pants off me pretty quickly, which is something Daniel has never managed. Losing got old fast, so I suggested we switch to poker, then blackjack, then Go Fish, which I changed on the spur of the moment to Go Fuck Yourself. Marty gave me a funny look at that. I don't doubt he knew exactly what the expression meant, but I'm sure he also knew it wasn't directed at him. I think he was probably envisioning a different person every time he said it, just like I was. I've got a long list.   
  
After she'd scraped the bottom of Kadina's barrel, Fraiser even sat in for a few hands. I'd be willing to bet she's got a long list, too. She certainly didn't seem terribly impressed with Karievesh medical technology and offered several vague mutterings on putting more effort into grinding bodies up than on piecing them back together. She was grateful, though, to have at least some sense of what she would be dealing with when Daniel returned - and dammit, he would be coming back.   
  
Fraiser's not much better at waiting than I am, so around about noon of the fourth day, she started nattering on about what she'd learned. And damned if I not only listened, but actually understood what she was saying. See, waiting tends to do one of two things to me. Either I get so focused on the thing I'm waiting for that I'm oblivious to just about anything else, or I'm trying so hard _not_ to think about the thing I'm waiting for that I'll put all of my attention on just about anything else. So Fraiser's lecture on the inner workings of the brain was getting about 95 percent of my attention, with the other 5 going toward considering the odds of Marty having any six's.   
  
The three of us were parked in the middle of Mud Central on some empty weapons crates - guess what color - slurping down some of the local equivalent of coffee Marty had rounded up for us. Amazingly enough, it didn't taste the least bit like onions. Or beer. Had sort of a cinnamon flavor to it. A touch of vanilla, too. But not too sweet. Just bitter enough to have the peel-your-eyelids-back kick of the strongest truck stop coffee back on Earth.   
  
Fraiser rifled through her cards, rearranging and considering her next move. "So there's the reticular activating system, or RAS. No wait, let me back up to the thalamus. The thalamus is sort of like the brain's central switchboard. It routes the signals coming in from the body to the appropriate parts of the brain for processing. Martouf, got any six's?"   
  
"No, Doctor Fraiser, I do not. Go fuck yourself." His eyes flashed briefly as he said it. Must be one off Lantesh's list. Or maybe he was expressing his disapproval of Marty getting coarse and crude with his language. Or maybe he was just pleased Marty was beating the pants off me - again. How the hell should I know? Who can know the ways of snakes other than the snakee, and I wasn't in a frame of mind to ask.   
  
Besides, now I knew who was hoarding six's. And it was my turn. Sweet. "Captain, do _you_ have any six's?"   
  
She gave me a disgusted look and tossed three cards down on the table, then took a gulp of her drink before getting back to the wonders of the brain. "Part of what the RAS does is to regulate overall activity in the brain, and in a sort of simplified sense, to disconnect the cerebrum from the rest of the brain when you're asleep."   
  
"Uh, cerebrum?" I tapped the top of my head, asking for confirmation. Hey, it'd been a long time since I'd taken a biology class. So I needed a little refresher on all the gobbledygook - cerebrum, cerebellum, thalamus, hypothalamus, medulla oblongata. God, there's a lot of shit crammed in there.   
  
Fraiser nodded. "Yep, the stuff on top. The biggest part of the brain - the gray matter, where you think and feel and remember. So when you're asleep, your cerebrum is sort of cut off in its own little world, processing memories, rearranging the input you've had during the day, kicking out dreams here and there. But the RAS makes sure the thalamus doesn't send any of those impulses back out to your body. So if you dream you're running, you don't actually start running."   
  
Marty's turn. "Colonel O'Neill, do you have any kings?"   
  
Damn. I had just picked up a second one, and I hadn't asked anyone for kings yet. Lucky son-of-a-snake. I flipped the cards across the table to land in front of him.   
  
"So getting back to this device Volish invented," Fraiser said as she contemplated her cards once again. "What it does, in a nutshell, is to act as a substitute RAS. The real RAS is taken offline and the gray matter ends up spinning its wheels. No input getting in from the outside world, no conscious output going to the body. But there's still output from areas like the brain stem, cerebellum, diencephalon - the parts of the brain that keep the autonomic functions going. Like respiration, digestion, circulation, metabolism - all the things you don't have to consciously think about, thank goodness, or we'd never get anything done."   
  
I leaned toward Marty and said in a low tone of voice, but plenty loud enough for Fraiser to hear, "Yeah, like a certain doctor making her play sometime in the current century."   
  
She quirked half a smile at me. "Very funny, Colonel. And while I'm busy laughing, why don't you just hand over that five you've got."   
  
What the...? Oh, I guess I had asked her for five's back at the beginning of the game. I tossed her the card, and then shook my head in disgust as she laid down a complete set of five’s. How the heck had she managed to draw the other three? Lucky daughter-of-a-human. OK, my turn. I needed a moment to regroup and form a new strategy. "OK, so the doohickey sort of does a brain switchboard impersonation, right?"   
  
"More or less."   
  
"And?"   
  
"Hmmm. Are you sure this isn't going to interfere with _you_ making _your_ play sometime in the next century?"   
  
"Nah." I waved a deprecating hand at her. "I can multitask."   
  
"OK." She laid her cards face-down on the table and picked up her mug, wrapping both hands around it. Uh-oh. That meant I was in for some serious big words stuff. Well, I _had_ asked for it. "As part of the mimicking process, the control chip extrudes a mass of fibers into key parts of the brain so it can substitute its own commands for the commands that normally come from the cerebrum. The programming in the chip governs what the body does instead of the person's conscious mind. The chip can even work with other parts of the brain to invoke skilled movements the person has never learned, or enhance those the person _has_ learned, such as..." She paused, frowned, set the mug down and picked up her cards again. "Oh, like...shuffling cards. Or hitting a baseball."   
  
Why did I get the feeling the first thing she was going to say was firing a gun? Killing someone efficiently and effectively, with or without weapons. I sat up straighter and snapped with more force than I'd intended, "Marty, got any six's?"   
  
"No, Colonel O'Neill," he said gently. "You have already obtained all of the six's."   
  
Oh. Yeah. Right. I drew a card and tucked it into my hand without even looking at it, then straightened all my cards into a neat stack and set them carefully down on the table in front of me. "Look, why don't we just quit beating around the bush here, Captain. Just tell me what you think Daniel's chances are, assuming - and I'm going to go right ahead and assume away here - assuming he ends up in more or less one piece after that substitute programming is done pushing and pulling him every which way."   
  
Her cards were still in her hands, tightly clutched. She ignored the "more or less one piece" part and backtracked to the chances. "If by ‘chances’ you mean the probability of successfully removing the chip, then his chances are very good. Tristan was actually right when she said it was a simple procedure. The chip is implanted close to the surface at the back of the neck. In fact, I think I felt it earlier. There was a bit of swelling and a small laceration, but I didn't think it was any different from Daniel's other injuries. In any event, I can simply snip it out. Nothing terribly invasive."   
  
"OK." I nodded once, slowly. She made it sound so simple. Slice and stitch and it's gone. If only... "But what about the fiber network? That stuff's buried pretty deep, isn't it?"   
  
"Yes." She paused, eye me suspiciously. So I'd been paying attention. Again. Twice in less than a week. So what? "But I don't think the fibers will need to be removed. They're organic, made via a process similar to the way neural cells are formed in a developing fetus, but using a subroutine in the chip programming to provide the blueprint instead of DNA. The pseudo-neurons are highly efficient. In fact, that's part of what allows them to take over from the natural RAS. The rest of the brain actually _prefers_ to interact with the more efficient cells. But unlike normal human neurons, these artificial cells are highly unstable. Without the chip to constantly maintain it, the network eventually breaks down and its components are absorbed into the surrounding tissues."   
  
"Oh. OK." I sighed and squeezed at my forehead with one hand while gripping my knee with the other. Still too damn many questions, and no answers to be had without waiting it out, seeing what happens. "What about the amnesia?"   
  
"That should cease after the chip is removed. The memory loss was almost certainly caused by the substitution of the false RAS and the virtual separation of the cerebrum from the rest of the brain. Put simply, there was no input reaching the parts of the brain necessary to even be processed into memory, either long- or short-term. The partial memories he does may have been formed during periods when the chip was overloaded with trying to process too many commands at once and the natural RAS was able to temporarily reestablish partial control. The brain is a very complex system, and manipulating an entire human body takes a tremendous amount of processing power."   
  
Yeah, I guess that explained why I couldn't muster the energy to move at that moment. Too much garbage cramming the neural pathways to get any signals out to the body. Way too much nauseating, shitty garbage, and as much as I wanted not to think about it, I couldn't stop the avalanche of thoughts.   
  
Fraiser apparently took my silence as a request for further information. Or maybe she was just talking to make noise, fill the space. I don't know. She was saying something about the separation of the cerebrum caused by the chip also being responsible for the lack of pain response. No signals getting up to the gray matter to even be recognized as pain, so short of massive physical injury...   
  
I reached over and found her arm without looking, squeezed firmly, staunched the flow of words. Slowly removed my other hand from over my eyes, gingerly picked up my cards and fanned them out. "I think it's your turn, Marty."   
  
So we went on drawing and shuffling and rearranging cards while the sun crept across the sky and slipped in and out of cloudbanks. Gray cloudbanks, as ever. But now every single "go fuck yourself" - certainly mine, probably Fraiser's, and maybe Marty's as well - was exclusively for Adren Volish.   
  
Amazing how mind-numbing repetitive tasks can be. In the end, you're not even thinking about what you're doing. No longer needing the distraction that originally led you to a deck of cards and something like coffee. Not thinking, the body running on autopilot, the mouth mechanically spitting out brusque requests for cards interspersed with the rapidly losing-in-meaning "go fuck yourself." Not even registering anything outside of your little circle of reality - three crates, one folding table, a trio of mugs, one deck of cards. A little space of muddy ground. Two companions. Misery loves company, ya know?   
  
And then someone or something goes and rips that cocoon of oblivion wide open, dumps you unceremoniously back into the living, breathing, dying world. In this case it was Imaga walking towards us, his battle armor dented, scuffed and mud-splattered, the white hair plastered with dirt and water into a gray skullcap, blood smeared lividly across one cheek - the only spot of color other than the sharp blue of his eyes. Sad, soulful eyes. Why hadn't I noticed that before? Or had they changed sometime in the last few days?   
  
He was alone, straight from the field. So this was it. The end of the road. The final reckoning. The Grim Reaper come to gloat over those who had lost and were left behind. I swallowed, working to reconnect my brain to my tongue, finally managed enough for two words. "Daniel's dead." A statement, not a question. I refused to lower myself to asking that question, requesting anything from this person.   
  
"I..." He paused, and a spasm rippled across his face. "I do not know. He evaded me, deep in Feloren territory."   
  
But that meant– A sudden spark of exhilaration jolted through me. Oh hell, yes! That meant Daniel was still alive and kicking. I slammed my fist onto the table, sending cards skittering. I was grinning like a silly fool, knew it, didn't care. "Hah!" I jumped up, shoved my face into Imaga's, poked a finger into the middle of his chest. "That just shows how much you know, asshole. Blew your tidy little plans, did he? So sorry you won't be getting the chance to slit Daniel's throat after he does your dirty work for you."   
  
Imaga blinked impassively at me. "No, Colonel, it is you who does not understand. I was simply the back-up plan, there to make sure Volish was brought to justice if there proved to be some flaw in the programming we implanted in your friend."   
  
I pulled abruptly away from him, folded my arms across my chest. "Yeah, right. More like you were wanting to say hello to your old buddy the mad scientist. Uh-huh," I added, pleased at the startled look on his face. "Tristan told us all about your dirty little secrets, you slimy son-of-a-bitch."   
  
I was expecting him to get angry, maybe even try to deck me, but he stood perfectly still, a sudden chill breeze lifting a small clump of his hair and making it flutter briefly. "I have no secrets, Colonel. That is part of the price I have paid for my transgressions, as is my customary silence. However, I have received permission to temporarily break with silence in order to bring you what news I have of your friend. Whatever you wish to know, if I have the answer, I will give it."   
  
I was taken aback. That simple? Spill the beans, let the cat out of the bag? But he had been a scientist, after all, and I guess being allowed to talk freely about anything must've been like a virgin getting his first piece of ass. "OK," I said, narrowing my eyes at him. "For starters, how about telling us what condition Daniel was in the last time you saw him. And where and when was that?"   
  
"Late yesterday afternoon. Outside the Feloren town of Semayna. Not far behind the line of battle. His course through Feloren territory was convoluted, mostly by necessity to evade enemy troops. In fact, he consistently circumvented rather than confronted any squadrons or scouting parties, so he had not sustained any injuries. He was not even showing appreciable signs of fatigue, despite not sleeping or eating in three days. Tracking him was...difficult."   
  
OK, so I suppose I had to thank that piece-of-shit brainfucker chip for that much. "So you're telling me you lost him?"   
  
"Yes." Face still, eyes controlled, body poised. He'd screwed up royally, but at least he wasn't making excuses. And I was sure Tristan was absolutely furious at the glitch in her tidy plan. That was something.   
  
He blinked rapidly a few times, but the rest of his face remained perfectly still. Then he added something completely out of left field. "He saved my life." It took me a second to realize he was talking about Daniel. "I was surrounded by a Feloren patrol, one of those he had managed to elude. The leader was moving in for the kill when your friend subdued her. Rendered her unconscious along with the rest of her unit, although I doubt with any permanent damage. Blunt, quick blows to the backs of the heads with the butt of his weapon, but not with excessive force. Just enough, no more."   
  
No excessive force? Just enough... "Hang on just a sec. You're telling me he was careful _not_ to kill them? Or even really hurt them?" Did that mean Daniel was still hanging onto himself somewhere in there?   
  
"Yes." Imaga looked confused. "He was never programmed to kill Feloren. We did not tamper with the existing programming more than was absolutely necessary. Of course, we suppressed the drive to attack Karievesh soldiers and civilians in order to prevent any further slaughter, but beyond that, we simply added a new imperative - the compulsion to find and eliminate Adren Volish. We felt it best to keep the alterations to a minimum since we were uncertain we had a clear grasp of all the subtleties of the coding."   
  
"Oh. Right." Damn. Thought I had something there. But wait - "You said he saved you. He had no reason to engage those soldiers other than the fact that you were there and probably about to be killed." Imaga nodded. Oh yeah. I took a deep breath. "In fact, the original programming probably would've had something in it to allow him to recognize the Feloren as friendlies and _not_ attack them."   
  
Another nod, even more confused than before. Oh yes. "So the programming had absolutely squat to do with Daniel saving your sorry ass." Yes, yes, yes! That had to be it. All the pieces fit. Shit, it was a logical progression worthy of Carter or even Daniel himself. And Daniel was definitely still there. Despite everything, despite having his brain infiltrated with all kinds of shit that had absolutely no business being there, despite having his body commandeered and knocked around like a goddamn punching bag, he was still in there. _Him. Daniel._ Not some unnatural _it_ using Daniel's body. It was _Daniel_ who had saved Imaga, and done it without killing anyone else. Daniel and no one else, the guy with the stubborn streak a mile long and a chip - pardon the choice of words - on his shoulder when it came to saving an entire planet or just one person. The guy with the knack for getting under my skin like splinters soaked in lemon juice. God bless him and keep him that way.   
  
It was a high, a real rush, the first positive development in oh so many days. But like any high, I came crashing down off it when Fraiser asked, "But you have no idea where he is now?" Oh hell. Shit, shit, shit. I can be such a stupid fuck at times. That's what happens when you let emotions get hold of you. You completely forget the nitty-gritty essentials. Like it wouldn't matter in the slightest whether or not Daniel's brain was still tick-tocking along if his body ended up dead, seeing as the brain has this habit of going out of business pretty soon after the body closes shop.   
  
"I'm afraid I have no idea. I tried to track him, but I wasn't able to pick up the trail again. He was gone, without a trace. I made my way back here and reported to the Thellok." He shifted uncomfortably, and I wondered if she'd been responsible for that blood on his cheek. Oddly, the thought didn't give me any satisfaction whatsoever. "The Thellok has said," he began hesitantly, stopped and cleared his throat, then started again. "She has said if your friend has not returned in three more days' time, you will be allowed to return to your own planet through the Stargate."   
  
"Oh, that's mighty wide of her," I said softly, looking right over Imaga's shoulder towards the admin building. "Mighty wide. But it ain't gonna happen, not unless Daniel's with us. See, I've got this little rule about not leaving people behind - even if I don't like 'em, and I happen to be kind of attached to this one. So you can just tell Tristan– No, actually, I think I'd like to deliver this message myself."   
  
I went to brush past him, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me to an abrupt halt. "I'm afraid that will not be possible. The Thellok is deep in the midst of planning sessions for a major campaign."   
  
We glared at each other for a few moments. No more sadness in those eyes, if it had ever been there. Maybe I'd imagined it. Hell, who was I kidding anyway. Sure, Daniel saved his life, but Imaga was still a soldier, loyal to his commander. Protective of her even if he would never be more than her subordinate.

I twisted my arm out of his grasp and took one step back. Just one. Wasn't gonna give him any more than that. "I guess that explains why we haven't seen hide nor hair of her in the last few days. Far be it from me to disturb the plotting of the great Thellok Tristan. So maybe you could deliver the message for me next time you see her?"   
  
He eyed me warily, but said, "I could do that, if the message is brief."   
  
"Oh, yeah. It's brief. Just three words, in fact. Tell her this - go fuck yourself."   
  
Imaga raised an eyebrow, but that was all. He didn't comment, didn't say he would deliver the message or that he refused to do so. He simply made a squishy pivot on his heel and slogged away across the mud.   
  
I suddenly felt like I was standing in a thick, gloppy puddle of glue. Or quicksand, sucking at my feet. It took some effort to take the few steps back to my packing crate and lower myself onto it carefully enough that I wouldn't slide right off and onto my ass in the mud. I doubted I'd be able to pick myself up again.   
  
I propped an elbow on my knee and leaned my forehead against my hand, the other hand absently sliding cards around the nearest section of table. I heard Fraiser and Marty settle back into their positions, felt the air shifting around me as they moved, sensed the pressure of their eyes coming to rest on me. "There's really no sense in you hanging around here anymore, Marty," I said with a weary sigh. I looked up at him, not quite focusing on him, not wanting to deal with whatever I might see on his face. "I appreciate everything you've done, but I assume you're free to go whenever you want. I'm sure you've got other business to take care of. Goa'uld bases to infiltrate, spying to do, raids to plan. You know - all that rebellion stuff."   
  
Martouf didn't respond for a moment, and I was beginning to think he might actually protest and insist on staying for a while longer, when he nodded and said, "Yes. Of course. But do not hesitate to call upon me if you have further need of my services. Both myself and Lantesh would be happy to assist in whatever way we are able."   
  
"Yeah. Thanks." There was a time I would've told him where he could stick his offer of assistance. After all this, though, not to mention that business on Netu, I was willing to accept it, even the Lantesh part. Sort of a package deal.   
  
After Marty left, I gathered up the scattered cards, tapped them gently into a precise stack, shuffled, suggested a game of blackjack. Hah. Yeah, that was me all right. Jack of the Foul Black Mood - no longer caring to ignore or distract myself from my rotten bad temper. I flicked cards across the table, slapped them down in front of myself with vaguely satisfying force, tapped them on their edges in irregular rhythms. We played a dozen hands, every one of which I lost, so either Fraiser's a card shark in a lab coat, or I was desperately throwing the cards around, hoping for good luck to take over and run the game for me.   
  
I finally shoved the cards into one big, haphazard pile and left them there, reached for my mug and knocked back the last bit of cold liquid. Made my stomach churn. "Explain something to me, would ya."   
  
"Sure, if I know the answer. So don't go asking me what the meaning of life is or anything like that."   
  
That managed to pull a trace of a smile out of me - barely there and quickly gone. "How is it that Daniel was able to remember more when we used the Tok'Ra memory device on him? I mean, if most of that stuff wasn't getting up into his gray matter to be stored in the first place, where was all of that coming from?" I had a feeling I knew the answer, wasn't entirely certain I wanted it confirmed, but the idea had turned into an itch and I had to scratch it, even if it bled.   
  
"Well..." She sighed, leaned forwards, propped her elbows on her knees and let her hands dangle. "I've been thinking about that." Damn. I was half-hoping she'd say she had no idea. "I think - possibly - and this is just a guess, but it seems to make sense - that the Tok'Ra device was pulling stored material from the chip. I mean, it's not just the fiber network simulating the RAS. The chip itself sort of acts as a surrogate cerebral cortex - remembering, learning, considering, deciding. A very sophisticated artificial intelligence."   
  
I looked down, shifted my foot back and forth in the mud, intently studying the resultant patterns of smeared bootprint. "So Daniel was getting all that crap dumped into his own brain because the memory device was pulling it out of the chip and tossing it out where his brain could get to it?"   
  
There was a long pause. I didn't look up. Didn't dare. Didn't want to see the accusation. It might not have been there, but still - it very well might've been. I was the one who’d gone and got the damn thing after all. I was the one who put the Pandora's Box within Daniel's reach.   
  
"Maybe," Janet finally responded. "But like I said, it's just a guess. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway. The video recordings..."   
  
"Yeah, yeah." I cut her off. I didn't want to hear it. At that particular moment, in that particular place, looking across to the horizon and seeing that the clouds weren't going to clear for their sunset display on that particular day - realizing that that particular day was number thirteen since Daniel had gone his separate way coming home from P4X119 - I wasn't in a frame of mind to be kind to myself. I was only interested in digging in my heels and doing whatever had to be done. Even if it meant doing nothing. Waiting. More waiting.   



	7. Casualties and Survivors

Two more days passed. Two ungodly long days. I gave up on playing cards, gave up even on pacing. Just stood and stared. A lot. Don't really remember what I was staring at, although I'm sure it was gray and muddy. Didn't even think much. The next day would be the day we would be "allowed" to go home, although I had no doubt staying and continuing to wait wasn’t an option the Karievesh were going to allow.

It was night, well after dark, and I was lying fully dressed down to my boots, wide awake on top of itchy wool blankets, when there was a commotion out in the encampment. Not a returning soldiers kind of commotion. Not even an imminent attack commotion. Subtly different, more fractured and confused, Tristan's name liberally sprinkled throughout. Then my breath caught as I picked up one other word, the most important word in all that gabbling - Butcher. I never thought I'd be happy to hear that term, knowing it was being applied to Daniel.   
  
I was up and out the door in a matter of seconds, leaving Fraiser cursing at herself for having taken her boots off. I knew she'd be right behind me, bootlaces flying and medical bag in hand. I hoped she wouldn't need the latter, but alive was alive. I'd take it however bloody and banged up it was.   
  
I dodged, shoved and wove my way around the rapidly accumulating mass of spectators. The epicenter of the forming vortex of bodies was a pair of figures clad in black plating - Thellok Tristan; and the one with the helmet, visor pulled down, had to be Daniel. There was something in his build, in his stance, in his presence that told me it was him. He was still in there, inside that body and skull, just waiting to be let out again.   
  
I wanted to run in and yank him back, haul him straight to the Stargate, willing or not, injured or not, brain-fried or not, but there was no way I was going to get through that press of bodies without causing a serious ruckus, and that might not be met at all kindly. So I waited. Again. Just a few minutes longer. I had waited this long. I could handle just a few more minutes.   
  
Fraiser skidded to a halt beside me, and I put a hand on her shoulder, pressed down and squeezed firmly. It was finally going to end. Maybe not be resolved or dealt with, but at least over and done with.   
  
The illumination was dim - silver from the chain of moons, blue-white from the compact light sources carried by some of the soldiers - and further diffused by the wet, clinging mist hanging in the air. Making everything ghostly, uncanny, surreal.   
  
Daniel had something in his hands, was holding it out toward Tristan, some kind of bundle wrapped in mottled cloth - splotched black and white like the skin of some animal. He let go, let it drop, but hung onto a corner of the wrapping. Three objects fell out and made a muted thunk on the wet ground - one large and round, two smaller and oddly lumpy.   
  
Daniel took several steps backwards, started to turn. Then slowly, so slowly I thought I was imagining it at first, he began to lean forwards. The movement rapidly gained speed, and he sprawled face-first into the mud. And lay there, unmoving.   
  
Fraiser jumped forwards ahead of me, pushing and shoving with a ferocity most would never suspect was in her, but I knew her well and was only a few steps behind her. We closed the short distance rapidly, dropped to Daniel's side, rolled him over carefully. I cursed and fumbled at the helmet's chin strap, hindered by the armor rising up from the chest plate to protect his neck. Janet checked his pulse, made a quick visual assessment of what she could see of his body. No idea where he got the armor. Didn't want to know, quite frankly.   
  
"Oh God." Fraiser's voice sounded small and lost, muffled by the heavy air. I jerked my head up, heart racing even faster than it already had been. She wasn't looking at Daniel, though. Her eyes were fixed on something else, her breath coming in short, foggy pants. She was looking at the ground down past Daniel's feet. I followed her line of sight, my head turning slowly, reluctantly.   
  
Imaga was there now, crouched near the ground, examining the objects that had fallen from the bundle. Tristan was at his shoulder. "Well?" she demanded impatiently.   
  
"That's him," Imaga replied quietly.   
  
That's him? Him who? I squinted, leaned over a little further. Winced as the light Imaga was holding played over what he was scrutinizing so carefully.   
  
The mottled cloth - the dark spots were blood. And the objects - a severed head and a pair of hands, one hand cleanly separated at the wrist, the other one looking as if it had been wrenched off, jagged bone fragments translucent and shining wetly in the light. Oh my God.   
  
I pulled my eyes away. Tried to abort the images that were flooding my mind. I couldn't help it. I knew firsthand how things like that happened. It was inevitable that the how and the who would try to come together in my head, but I'd be damned if I'd just let it happen. It wasn't him that had done it. I didn't want images that were nothing but lies.   
  
Fraiser was evidently going through her own struggle, although I can't really guess what it might have been. She just about never sees the shit actually being done, after all. Just gets to put the pieces back together again after the fact. She blinked hard and slow a couple of times, twitched, shook herself, then went back to digging in her bag.   
  
I finally got the helmet off, tossed it to the side, not caring where it landed. Thunk in the mud. Like a severed head. Christ.   
  
Daniel's face was dirty, bruised and blood-spattered. Muscles slack, eyes closed and mouth open. But he was breathing, thank God. And there were flickers of movement behind his eyelids.   
  
I let Fraiser take over, sat back on my heels, looked back toward Imaga and Tristan. He was saluting her in fist across the chest fashion. She returned the gesture, brisk and efficient, then turned and stalked back toward the admin building. Back to her sanctuary. Her room of brightly colored windows into hell.   
  
Imaga returned his attention to the trophy - the gory proof of Tristan's victory. Already shoved to the back of the great Thellok's mind, no doubt, chalked up on the scorecard and then dismissed in the way death and brutality can only be dismissed when you're in the thick of it. It would come back to haunt her later, though. I sincerely hoped it would. Maybe one day she'd even truly regret how crassly she'd used a man she didn't even know to take down her enemy.  
  
But Imaga wouldn't forget. The look on his face - akin to what I'd seen on the faces of men and women alike, trailing their fingers lightly across the thousands of names inscribed across a black granite wound in the earth, frozen in a moment of silent grief as they come to the one name they're seeking. In the same way those men and women had touched the Wall, Imaga reached down and gently drew his fingers across the surface of Volish's face, pulling the eyes closed. Then he straightened up, looked one more time at what was left of his former colleague, and spat on it.   
  
Fraiser didn't take long to determine Daniel was unconscious - yeah, I caught that one myself - but stable enough for travel. I think she wanted to cut and run just as urgently as I did - before someone who didn't know who Volish was or why parts of his body had been toted back to the Karievesh camp decided Daniel still needed to be lynched as payment for Karievesh body parts scattered on Feloren soil.   
  
Oddly enough, it was Imaga who helped us bug out. Got us over to one of the ground cars - even helped carry Daniel the couple of hundred wet, mushy yards to get there - then took us back to the Stargate. He didn't say a single word the entire time, just took care of business with a minimum of looks and gestures. I didn't try to get him to talk, and neither did Fraiser. There was really nothing left to say - to him, about him, about his world or his war.   
  
Imaga didn't get out of the vehicle when we reached the 'Gate, but he did stay there with the door open until we got the wormhole established and lugged Daniel up the steps to the event horizon. We set him down there and paused to catch our breaths and to get a better hold on him before we went through. Didn't want to loose our grip and have him get tossed out the other end. That would've been one insult too many.   
  
Before we picked Daniel up again, I turned back toward the waiting ground car, squinted until I could see through the mists and scattered patches of fog to Imaga's face, dimly lit by the soft illumination of the control panels. I gave him a half-wave, half-salute - a thank-you for doing what little he could. He seemed to understand. He crossed his arm over his chest and inclined his head in a slight nod. Then the door of the transport slid closed and the vehicle hummed off over the battered and broken terrain.   
  
I took one last breath of Torrhenan air and blew it out in a long plume of steam. A few short steps across the event horizon, bodies split apart and sent screaming across the galaxy, and we were home.   
  
Home, but still very much in the woods.   
  
Daniel's final visit to Feloren territory had left him with some additions to the collection of minor injuries he'd already amassed, which Fraiser diligently cleaned, stitched and bandaged. More worrisome, though, was the fact he wasn't waking up. He was in a coma of sorts - caused, Fraiser surmised, by a combination of factors. Exhaustion, dehydration, shock. The end of the secondary programming after he'd brought the evidence of Volish's death back to Tristan. Possibly a conflict between the overlaid programming and the original programming, ending up with the chip stuck in the "on" position even though it no longer had anything to react to - no Karievesh, no Adren Volish, no Torrhena.   
  
Bottom line, the fiber network still seemed to be blocking the real RAS. Blocking input to and output from the real Daniel. He was still trapped inside his own head, and the only way to liberate him seemed to be to remove the chip. But that was no big deal. Doc Fraiser was on the case. Simple procedure. Right?   
  
A whole slew of tests later, every body function measured and checked and rechecked, Fraiser finally went ahead with the surgery. As thoroughly as she had studied the Karievesh medical files, and grilled Dr. Kadina on top of that, she still seemed apprehensive. That's really not like her, but I guess it's understandable considering the last time there'd been an attempt to surgically remove something alien from an SGC member's brain, it hadn't turned out well. One gravestone with the name "Kowalski" can attest to that.   
  
Carter, Teal'c and I set up our vigil in the waiting room, filled up the coffee mugs. Even Teal'c sipped at a cup, liberally laced with cream and sugar. Ever since Urgo, he'll partake every now and then, only thankfully in much smaller quantities and at lower temperatures.   
  
We didn't say much to each other - a continuation of the habits we'd developed over the past couple of days. The most talking I'd done during that time was at the debriefing where I laid out the whole sorry mess - while Fraiser evaluated what kind of physical mess she had laid out on the exam table in her infirmary.   
  
I still remember the look on Carter's face when we came back through the 'Gate. Haggard, like she'd hardly slept the whole time Daniel was gone. Relieved he was back, of course. Other things, too - things tied into the filth and the blood, the black plating still strapped onto his body - and what the blood and the armor represented. She'd seen the same cold, hard evidence, after all, and this was a certain measure of confirmation for her. I knew she'd reason herself into knowing it wasn't Daniel who had done those things, but still - it was an image she didn't need.   
  
We were only on the second round of coffee when Fraiser appeared in the waiting room, fully decked out in scrubs, the mask still on her face. My stomach lurched so hard I thought I was going to spew coffee all over the place. She was visibly shaken, and her hand trembled as she hooked a finger over the edge of the mask to pull it down. No. No, no, no, no. Not after all we'd done, everything we'd gone through to get him back.   
  
But then she actually laughed. A nervous grin spread over her face. Shit. Was she losing it, cracking up right in front of us?   
  
"Janet?" Carter said softly, tentatively, impending grief held rigidly in check.   
  
Fraiser waved a hand and shook her head, pulled the surgical cap and mask off and scrunched them up tightly. "It's OK. He's all right. We just moved him to recovery."   
  
I did a full turn, waving my hands at the ceiling and ending with my hands on top of my head. "Jesus, Janet, you scared the shit out of me!"   
  
"Oh. I'm sorry." She turned to toss the cap and mask into a bin in the corridor and wobbled as she nearly lost her balance. "Ah... I need to sit down."   
  
Teal'c stepped forward and took her elbow, guided her to the nearest chair. Carter pushed a mug of coffee into her hands, said, "Decaffeinated," then sat and tucked her hands between her knees. "So what happened?"   
  
Fraiser took a gulp of coffee, dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, blew out a quick breath. "The surgery was successful. The chip was close to the surface, embedded under the skin at the back of the neck. Not impinging on any brain or spinal tissue whatsoever. The fiber network is another matter altogether, but I left that alone, apart from snipping the terminal ends connected to the chip." She paused, took another sip of coffee.   
  
"We used a local anesthetic. Less risky than general anesthesia, and there wasn't a need for it anyway since he was already unconscious. But as soon as I snipped the last fiber...he woke up. Fully alert and very agitated and disoriented. Startled the living daylights out of me. I honestly didn't think the effects would be that immediate. We ended up having to heavily sedate him so we could finish the procedure and close."   
  
"Whoa," Carter said, leaning forwards and then sitting up ramrod straight. "But he's OK now?"   
  
"Yes. Yes, absolutely. Give him a few hours to rest, get the sedatives out of his system, then you can go in to see him. We'll have to keep him under observation a few days, monitor him closely to be sure the fiber network is breaking down and there are no aftereffects, but everything looks good right now."   
  
We were all so relieved, so thankful, felt so much lighter with the lifting of that one burden - he was alive, he would live - that we were lulled into a comfortable illusion for the next few hours. Everything was going to be OK. Everything had turned out fine. Once again. One more hair's breadth escape.   
  
We went to the commissary and ate. We talked, we laughed. Carter even told an offcolor joke, which Teal'c, being Teal'c, raised an eyebrow at. Actually, I think Teal'c was a bit more guarded with his optimism than Carter and I were being. Kind of hard to differentiate that subtle of a shading with him, and I wasn't exactly intent on interpreting facial expressions at the time, least of all those of a customarily stoic Jaffa.   
  
When we all trooped down to recovery at the appointed time, we were a little deflated by Daniel's lack of responsiveness. He was tired, that was all. He'd been through a lot. He'd just had the back of his neck sliced open, for Christ's sake - and woke up midway through. I think that would be enough to drain the yap and yammer out of even me. It was a short visit, closely chaperoned by Doctor Fraiser, her arms folded tightly across her chest, enforcing the five-minute curfew.   
  
The next day wasn't any better, though, or the day after that. Or the next day or into the next week. He slept a lot, or at least pretended to. Half the time when I dropped by, his eyes would be closed. I think he was mostly avoiding talking to anyone or even looking at the world around him, limited as it was to gray concrete walls and IVs and medical monitors. Even the few times when I did catch him sitting up in bed, there were still dark circles under his eyes - eyes that refused to meet mine, to meet anyone's. He hardly ate, barely spoke outside of terse, superficial answers to direct questions.   
  
Physically he was improving, although that was hampered by his lagging appetite and the frequent disturbances when he did really sleep. Nightmares. Waking up screaming more than once, but usually just setting the monitors to wailing with elevated pulse and blood pressure and respiration - symptoms that were often present even when he was wide awake. Post-traumatic stress with a chaser of depression.   
  
What did I expect anyway? He'd been through hell, and he looked the part.   
  
Fraiser tried various medications, which he took without protest or comment - and all of which had little to no effect. She brought in a psychiatrist - not MacKenzie - who reported slow progress. Actually, I think calling it "progress" was being optimistic. The only difference I saw was less staring at the walls or ceiling during his rare periods of wakefulness and more staring at his hands. Maybe Fraiser should've brought MacKenzie in. That might've at least gotten a definite reaction out of him.   
  
Carter brought him cookies - which remained untouched or ended up being eaten by the nurses. Teal'c talked to him - a lot, in fact. I don't know what about because he always spoke in very low tones and would stop when I came into the room. That seemed to...I don't know that "help" is the right word for it. It did something, brought Daniel back to the land of the living a little bit - but only to make him feel the pain of his fractured memories, judging from the look in his eyes after Teal'c had been there.   
  
I talked to Daniel, too, about what teams were offworld, doing what, what kind of rocks and various other assorted junk they were bringing back. Even brought him a few pieces that Rothman insisted would be fascinating to Daniel. He did turn them over in his hands for a few minutes, but then handed them back to me without a word. I tried to get him to play cards with me, even resorted to attempting to entice him with chess, but he wouldn't bite. Or speak. He had the rolling over and playing dead part down pretty good, though.   
  
I finally ended up playing solitaire on top of the blanket at the edge of the bed, accompanied by a running commentary of any and all stupid and inane bits of trivia and pieces of gossip I could come up with. I even made up some pretty wild stuff that likely would've gotten me sued or slapped in the face by the subjects of the stories.   
  
Nada. Nothing I could honestly term a reaction or a response. I was staring at the cards, considering throwing in the towel for the day, when his hand appeared in front of my face. He grabbed my wrist, squeezed it hard, whispered, "Jack, please. Get– Get me out of here." I looked up and was stunned to find myself looking into eyes that were actually...alive. Or at least, trying very hard to cling to life. The eyes of a drowning man with one word on his lips. "Please."   
  
I went straight to Fraiser, told her I was taking Daniel home. She gave me a look that said she clearly thought I was off my rocker, but when I told her he'd actually _asked_ me to get him out of there, she paused for a moment - a very long moment - then conceded. Amazing the reaction one little sign can get. A supposedly dead person twitches; a comatose person opens his eyes; a virtually catatonic archeologist begs a favor.   
  
When I went to tell him he was being released, he was already up and trying to dress himself. I guess he was planning on going no matter what Fraiser had to say. Not that he was doing such a great job of getting ready for the great escape. He'd apparently yanked the I.V. out himself judging from the bloodstain seeping through the plaid of his shirtsleeve. His belt was still unbuckled, his shoes were unlaced, and the two shirt buttons he'd managed to get fastened were in the wrong holes. Civvies - that damn plaid shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, all just shy of being ready for the rag bin. Comfortably worn. His favorites. Where they'd appeared from, I had no idea. Probably another Fraiser touch, but I doubt this was quite the release from her care she had in mind.   
  
I asked him if he wanted me to call one of the nurses to help him - I knew he wasn't going to let me do it - but he gave me a terse "no" and doggedly kept at it until he had himself all buttoned up and tucked in. He refused the Band-aid I held out to him. The bleeding had already stopped. Too late for the favorite shirt, not that he seemed to care. He was completely focused on getting the hell out of there, but quite frankly, I had my doubts he'd make it all the way topside unassisted. His face was flushed from the exertion of getting up and getting dressed, and besides that, he'd hardly eaten or slept in days. That's enough to make even Teal'c a little unsteady on his feet.   
  
Daniel gutted it out, though, walking along as steadily as he could manage, eyes straight ahead, faintly nodding at those who greeted him, ignoring those who stared at him or avoided looking at him. Kind of made me wish, not for the first time, that there was some kind of weed killer for grapevines.   
  
Once he'd settled into the passenger seat of my truck, he slumped back and took a deep, shuddery breath. He was sweating, a thin sheen on skin gone pale. I didn't comment, just let him be as I pulled out of the parking space and headed for the guardhouse and the open road. Sunny day, the occasional cloud scudding across the sky, light breeze stirring through aspen leaves, cool outside but warm and quiet inside the cab of the truck. The only sounds were the hum of the wheels on the road and the wind sweeping around the truck, catching with a whistle in the cracks of the doors and windows.   
  
I was beginning to think Daniel had fallen asleep when he asked where we were going.   
  
"I kind of assumed you'd want to go to your apartment," I said, glancing at him as he opened his eyes and sat up, facing forwards, staring at the road ahead of us.   
  
"No," he said softly, with a hint of what I took to be sadness. "Can't... I just can't."   
  
"OK. My place then. I think I've got some Campbell's Soup in the cupboard."   
  
He snorted, a harsh and bitter sound. "No thanks. All I really want is a good, stiff drink. Make that several."   
  
My eyes flicked from him to the road, trying to assess if he was serious. Seemed like he was. "Umm, I'm not sure that's such a great idea."   
  
"I don't care," he said with a bit more force, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes again. "I just need...something. I don't know what. Some way to just...stop thinking for a while. I can't stop thinking about it."   
  
Not surprising, Daniel being who he is, but still - it wasn't easy to hear him say it. Another confirmation. But I guess you don't get anywhere until you face up to what's twisting your gut in knots. There's only so long you can shove pain back down before it ends up hell-bent to strangle you.   
  
Booze wasn't going to help him, though. I've been there. I know. But I had a feeling I wouldn't be able to convince Daniel of that. Not with words. He'd just have to find out for himself, find his own way of coping. So we went back to my place, but before I let him near anything that could be classified as alcohol, I insisted he eat something. He didn't even argue. Just headed for the kitchen and started rummaging through the cabinets, managed to find some crackers and peanut butter I didn't realize were in there. He sat down at the table and started munching away, his jaw working mechanically, each swallow hard and slow.   
  
I think he probably would've gone on like that until he gagged. Not like peanut butter is the easiest thing to swallow on a good day. I went and opened the refrigerator door, looking for something to offer him to wash it down. Plenty of beer. An open can of Coke, definitely flat by now. The remains of a gallon of milk, two weeks past the expiration date. OK, so it'd be beer. One or two bottles, he'd be zonked, and that would be that. He'd end up with enough of a hangover to realize there were no answers to be found either in a drunken haze or its aftermath. He always catches on lickety-split. I was hoping this would be no exception.   
  
I set a bottle down on the table next to him, took one of my own, twisted the cap off and leaned back against the counter as I took a swig. Daniel barely paused between bites of cracker as he absently popped the top off his bottle and took a long pull - several swallows worth. And then he slammed the bottle down on the table so hard I'm amazed the glass didn't shatter. His hand flew up to his mouth and he was up and sprinting down the hall toward the bathroom a split second later, the chair he'd been sitting in hitting the floor like an afterthought. The sound of gagging and retching was quick to follow.   
  
I just stood there, strangling my bottle with one hand and gripping the edge of the counter with the other. Damn it all to hell. What had I been thinking? The smell, that taste...reminiscent of the water on Torrhena. Fraiser had explained to me at some point during the past few days that Daniel was likely to have strong reactions to smells associated with what had happened to him. Taste as well since that's closely related. Even more so than a person would normally have. Seems that smell bypasses the thalamus on the way to the brain, so that was the one input that wasn't blocked by the implant Volish put in Daniel's head.   
  
Cursing at my stupidity, I emptied the contents of both bottles down the drain and ran several gallons of water from the tap, then disposed of the carcasses in the trashcan in the garage. By the time I'd done that and opened the window over the sink to clear the last of the smell, the gagging coming from the bathroom had stopped. There was a flush followed by the sound of running water. I walked down the hall slowly, wanting to give him time to compose himself, so by the time I poked my head around the edge of the open doorway, he was sitting on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands.

“Daniel?” I asked gently, not sure what I was wanting from him. I was damn sure he wasn’t going to say he was okay.  
  
"I'm sorry," was what he did say.  
  
I skirted around whatever larger issues he might’ve been referring to and stuck to the here and now. "Hey, no big deal. I should've known better. I mean, Fraiser told me..." I trailed off, thinking maybe it would be better if we just didn't talk about it at all.   
  
He shook his head, looked up at me briefly, his eyes quickly jerking away from my face and darting all around the room as he spoke. "It's just that I remember the smells. Really, really well. Stale water, a fermented smell, like the - like the beer. Cold air, wet, damp. Musty, moldy. Blood. Lots of blood. Vomit, rotting bodies, burnt flesh. God. All mixed together." His shoulders heaved and he shoved a knuckle into his mouth and bit down. I reached out and grabbed his shoulder, but he shrugged away from me, lowered his hand to his lap, took a few deep breaths.   
  
"So how much do you really remember? Other than the smells?" It was a difficult question to ask, and I was sure it wouldn't be easy for him to answer, but with Daniel, the quicker you can drag something out in the open, the better. Otherwise, he'll stew on it endlessly, let it eat him up inside for so long it becomes a part of him. I wasn't about to let this become part of him any more than it had to be. I’d already let it sit too long.   
  
"Bits and pieces mostly. Before I was captured. Then with you and Janet in the prison cell. The recordings. A little bit when I was searching for Volish. There was someone following me. I think I helped him even though there was something - from the chip, I guess - telling me I shouldn't. And then there was the other stuff the Karievesh added on. I remember the compulsion... It was overwhelming. I had to find him, had to kill him, had to..." His hands were clenched in his lap now, shaking, his thumbs rubbing back and forth across the joints of his index fingers. "I know what she wanted - the evidence. I remember that. I don't remember actually doing it, but I can fill in the blanks." He paused for a moment, caught his breath. I put my hand back on his shoulder, and this time he let it stay there. "God, I hated him so much, and it wasn't all the programming in that damn chip. I hated him - I still hate him - for what he did, what he was doing, to me, to other people, to all the victims. The dead and the dying. The ones I killed with my own hands."   
  
Watching him tear himself up like that wasn't easy, even though I knew it was necessary. To be perfectly honest it made my blood boil. Because of Volish, the sick, sadistic bastard. Because of Thellok Tristan and her part in the whole awful mess. Plus I was plenty angry - rip-roaring angry - at myself for letting her manipulate all of us like that. Oh, and for thinking that another mindfuck - and a Tok'Ra one at that - was a good idea. I might've even been a little bit angry at Daniel, God knows why. Maybe for insisting on using the memory device.   
  
Somehow, though, I was able to put all of that aside and managed to say in a relatively calm and controlled voice, "It wasn't you, Daniel. You didn't do those things. You're not responsible. No more than Sha're was responsible for what Ammonet did."   
  
That shook him, just as I'd hoped, kicked him right in the heart and the gut. He looked up at me with a wild and terrible grief in his eyes, but it burned bright and fierce like a flash of gunpowder and was just as quickly gone. He slumped over, buried his face in his hands. "You're right." The words were muffled, barely touched by conviction, but at least they were there. "I know you're right. But that doesn't make it any easier to live with."   
  
"I know. It hurts like hell. It'll keep you up nights, maybe on and off for the rest of your life." He looked up at me, the shadows slipping and slithering all around his eyes. Some new ones in the collection, painfully dark. "You know, a very good friend of mine once gave me kind of a strange answer when I asked him if he was OK. He said he wasn't - but he would be. That's probably one of the most honest things anyone's ever said to me. Not pretty, not terribly reassuring, but the truth. You'll be OK, Daniel. Trust me on that one. Trust yourself."   
  
He stared at me for a long moment - dumbfounded, confused, hurting, upset, scattered and uncertain - but he finally nodded, let the barest sliver of a sad smile creep into his face for just a few seconds. It was a start.   
  
I gave his shoulder a quick shake and let go. "How about we go sit out on the deck, get some fresh air? I could order some pizza. Or some Chinese. I think there's even something left in that bottle of scotch Carter gave me for my last birthday. Real smooth stuff. That should go down easier."   
  
So we went and sat under the wide, clear sky, bright and achingly blue, washed with sunlight and wisps of cloud. Sipped at the last of the scotch, ate fried rice and moo goo gai pan, listened to the radio - classical stuff, nice and soothing and noncommittal. Didn't talk. Just shared the solitude, the feeling of life going on all around us. Watched the sun set and the stars come out, one by one. Simple things. Everyday things. Meaning of life things. The things that let you know it'll be OK, if you're just willing to let them. I believe that. I really do. And I think Daniel does too. That’s just him. The real him.

* * * * *

The End


End file.
